Edge of The World 2: Here Be Dragons
by corbyinoz2
Summary: Virgil and Gordon Tracy are missing, but they're not the only ones. Scott and John lead the way in searching for their brothers and the others who have disappeared, and the solutions they find to the challenges they face bring their own dangers...
1. Chapter 1

**Edge of the World 2: Here Be Dragons**

 **Corby (corbyinoz)**

 **Summary:**

Virgil and Gordon Tracy are missing, but they're not the only ones. Scott and John lead the way in searching for their brothers and the others who have disappeared, and the solutions they find to the challenges they face bring their own dangers...

 **Notes:**

This is the continuation and conclusion of Edge of the World. If you haven't read that, this story will make far less sense.  
Once again, thank to my estimable colleague and dear friend, Soleil-Lumiere.  
And thank you to all who supported the first part of this story, I appreciate it more than I can say. I hope you enjoy the rest.

 **Chapter 1** **: Off the Edge**

"Virgil? Thunderbird Two?"

Nothing. Everything in front of him was suddenly gone; it was surprising.

"Virgil, I have no visual. Come in on audio."

Silence.

"Are you there? Thunderbird Two?"

This shouldn't happen, but of course, such things did. It was the nature of communication across distances undreamed of in earlier civilizations; everything was fine and clear and then, things just dropped out.

A quick reboot through the relay. Drop in by the auto-servers.

"Thunderbird Two. Come in."

Nothing. That was a surprise worth a blink; not even static.

"Thunderbird Two. I am pinpointing coordinates and will send visual via – "

No coordinates.

No coordinates.

John's mind scrambled to catch up.

No coordinates means no ship, which means no – no source matter.

Thunderbird Two is not there.

John cleared everything with a flick of his hand, and called to EOS.

"EOS, I am attempting to communicate with Thunderbird Two. Can you locate and verify for me?"

'Am I to search in the previous coordinates?'

"Yes, that's the optimum place for a search parameter."

A pause, a silent rallying of a billion processors.

'I cannot find Thunderbird Two, John. In any sense correlative with my function. Thunderbird Two has ceased to exist.'

"There will be the location sensor in the main console that remains no matter what."

A beat. A turn of the earth beneath his feet. Iceland, to Greenland, to Canada, Newfoundland; the encroaching night a band of darkness circling the Earth from pole to pole across Europe as he sat above doomed sunlight.

"EOS, Thunderbird Two was transmitting from the point of lost contact. Can you search through the vector of the transmission to –"

'I have already done so, John. Thunderbird Two is not present in any meaningful sense.'

Blink. Pause. Swing and turn. Weightless. Unanchored.

"Virgil. Come in, Virgil."

"This course of procedure would seem to be contraindicated.'

"Virgil?" Later, it would bother him that he never called for Gordon. As if Gordon didn't matter, as if his name wasn't in his heart as well.

But Gordon wasn't the one he'd been speaking to seconds before.

"EOS, give me a scan of the area around that which held Thunderbird Two until two minutes ago."

'Scanning – I have an anomaly.'

"What kind of anomaly?"

'The spectrograph indicates a large area of previously unrecorded electromagnetic activity. The lengths of the electromagnetic pulses are dissonant with previously recorded electromagnetic disturbances. This is a truly strange phenomenon, John. Do you want me to play with it?'

She sounded interested, alert. She was good, but her program had yet to pick up the fact that for John this had just shifted from puzzling to alarming. She'd adjust her voice when she did.

"John, your heart rate has increased significantly. You are exhibiting signs of stress."

Well, that didn't take long.

A tap on his shoulder sash to redirect comms. "Thunderbird Five to Base. Come in, Base."

A pause, and then his grandmother's face appeared. For the briefest of moments, five year old John felt immediately better.

"Base to Five. Hello, dear."

Twenty-five year old John couldn't afford the comfort.

"Grandma, I need to speak to Brains. Can you put him on please?"

"Sorry, no can do. Brains has been in the bathroom for the last two hours. He says it's something he ate. Can I help?"

"You could try something for me. See if you can contact Thunderbird Two. There might be some specific interference between them and Five."

"Will do. Base to Thunderbird Two. Come in, Two."

The emptiness of the airwaves seemed as loud and as painful as scratches down a chalkboard.

Grandma's tone changed, and he hated that he'd brought this to her.

"There's no response, John. What's going on? Can I do anything else?"

"I wish you could, but not this time. Grandma, it's important I speak to Brains."

"Well, I'll go and see. But he didn't sound too good last time I checked on him."

She was gone, and John's mind was free to keep churning through the data, the possibilities, his options. He needed to think clearly and calmly, to do the job for which he was trained and to which he brought his natural proclivities of rationality and logic.

And beneath both, threatening to break through and destroy it all, lurched the drunken golem of his fear. He closed his eyes, tightly, for one second's worth of forcing it back.

"J-John! How can I help you?"

"Brains. You okay?"

"Oh, a little under the weather. Nothing I can't push through."

So to speak. In his head he heard Gordon's voice, as clearly as if he was standing behind him, irreverent as ever. It brought a spike of something skewed, something cold and sharp and wrong that he never wanted to associate with the thought of his little brother. He took a quick breath and kept going.

"Brains, I've got a strange one. I'm sure it's – I mean, there's bound to be an explanation. I can't get through to Thunderbird Two and she seems to have disappeared from my sensors."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Oh, my. That is highly unusual."

"I've got to be missing something. Brains, if I send you the EMF signature, you'll be able to figure it out, won't you?"

"I'll do my best, but – oooh."

"Brains?"

"It's nothing. I suspect f-food poisoning."

"I'm sorry to hear it. But do you think you can help me?"

"I'll get on it right away."

Brains left, to be replaced by Grandma, her expression one John could have predicted to within a wrinkle. Grim. Worried. Resolute.

"I don't like this, John."

"Neither do I. But those two are survivors, Grandma. If - if the worst has happened and Two is down, odds are they're floating in an escape pod in the North Sea, fighting over who gets to steer."

Grandma lifted her chin.

"If those boys have any say in it, they'll row to London if they have to."

"You know it."

Grandma Tracy's image disappeared, replaced by another in the corner of his eye.

"International Rescue, this is Colonel Casey."

John swung about to face the second comm unit.

"Go ahead, Colonel."

Colonel Casey stood, shoulders back, jaw tight, eyes as focused as ever.

"I'm contacting you to advise you that GDF has declared a no-fly zone in the North Sea."

The North Sea.

John's body felt empty, everything inside him hollowed out by the tension in her voice and those three words.

"Why?"

The briefest of nods at the question.

"We lost one of our planes early this morning, but it was unable to radio for assistance. It took some time to locate its likely point of disappearance due to unusual EMF interference."

Oh god.

"I have just been informed that the two search and rescue planes we sent out two hours ago have also disappeared. Until we know what is causing this, I have notified the council, the NATS and the European and US commercial aviation authorities that an area of 1000 square kilometres directly north of the UK is to be considered a no-fly zone until further notice." She looked down at something in her hand, nodded to someone out of sight, then brought her attention back to John. "I noted you logged in a rescue in the southern Arctic Circle this afternoon."

John didn't wait for the question. He didn't want the choice of a denial.

"Colonel – we have lost all contact with Thunderbird Two."

And she surprised him, because the immediate worry showed on her face for several seconds before she mastered it.

"John – that is very bad news. I am sorry to hear it. Have you managed to trace them at all?"

"I was in contact when they – when the transmission ceased, so we have a point of reference for searching."

"I see." She paused, then said, "I think we should coordinate our resources here."

"Agreed."

"I will send you what we have so far, although I admit, it's precious little."

"I've already asked Brains to begin analysing the EMF reading."

"Good. John, it is essential that we keep this area clear until we know what we're dealing with. Can I count on you to keep Scott back? I'm sure he's planning on coming here."

John swallowed, found his voice.

"I haven't actually told him yet." That hollowness inside was filling with something cold and dark and afraid. "I'll let you know how I go."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2** **: The Knock on the Door**

 **Notes:**

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

The stress of the day was in his shoulders, and the way he had to fold himself forward and then open his chest back up in order to squeeze some of the tension out of them. Five hundred, a thousand times he'd done that; first, when he was flying with the USAF, and now with International Rescue. It was almost a ritual for him; first thousand kilometres clear of the mission, and Scott Tracy did his little in-house stretch.

Just below his eye line in the forward section of the cockpit was a small, mostly blue on blue painting that Virgil did for him three years ago. His brother hadn't used the usual method of painting; no, this one was done with a program on a laptop, one that matched every note in a piece of music to a point on the colour spectrum. The longer the note was held, the darker and more intense the colour. It was made with a piece of music that Scott loved, an old time flare of orchestral rock that just seemed to summon up the joy and sheer liberation of going very, very high and very, very fast.

Sometimes, when Scott was coming back from a rescue like this one, he found his eyes resting on the abstract peaks and troughs of the painting, and it was both restful and invigorating in a way he couldn't explain. That was for the Virgils of this world to do, maybe the Johns. All he knew was that when his mind insisted on going over and over the day's events, to no immediately good purpose, the pattern and the music it conjured in his mind had the ability to bring the spiralling worry into a kind of quiescent flat-line - and that allowed him to work things through calmly.

Scott admitted to a certain brand of weirdness. Maybe not to his brothers, but definitely to himself. He was all about the next thing, the next rescue, the next high, the next challenge to be met. And yet, at exactly the same time, he was irredeemably all about what had just happened – where he'd made a decision that cost them time, amped up the risk, shifted the needle implacably into the red zone that signalled danger and risk and potential loss of people and planes and, most dread of all, his brothers.

So in this long, late afternoon as he made enormous distances look like laughable puddle jumps, Scott adjusted his settings and looked at the painting while his mind dissected the day with clinical precision and the contrary guilt that came with all-consuming responsibility.

Three decisions.

He took too long to realise that Gordon needed to stabilise the hut from below. Five minutes earlier and the wind was five minutes easier up top. Would have saved a bit of wear and tear on both he and Virgil, right there. The decision was an obvious one, but he'd hesitated because he was sending Gordon in alone. Which led to number two.  
He should have gone down. Gordon was like a goat or something, the way he read the swells of the sea while balancing on his 'bird. But twice in that extended rescue he'd been distracted by the people he was rescuing and so had missed the sudden lift, ending up almost crushed to death between the unstable hut and Thunderbird Four. If he, Scott, had gone down, left Thunderbird One on auto, he would have been back-up, been able to watch the sea as Gordon watched the rescues. It was a big risk, of course, with the winds the way they were, but better to risk his 'bird than his brother.

Hmm. Unless the auto-pilot reacted too slowly to the unpredictable winds and One slammed into Two? He could always give Virgil remote control of One – but no, that would take far too much concentration away from stabilising Two in those conditions. So perhaps he should have recalled Alan from his leave, used him as back-up? Should he, as commander, have known that an extra person was needed? He'd have to re-check the log, see exactly what information John had passed on to him prior to their departure.

And lastly, he should have vetoed the Penny meeting. Sure, she was a brilliant agent, but what could she have to say that she couldn't have sent through on the comms? Virgil and Gordon were beat; they didn't need the diversion, no matter how insistent Lady P was.

Although it was funny the way Gordon had sparked up when he heard the request. Scott shook his head slightly. Surely his little brother didn't have a crush on Lady Penelope? Gordon, of all people. Unlike her ladyship, that would not be pretty. She was way out of his league. Miles too old for him for starters. She'd never look twice at a - well, at a Gordon.

He gave a slight chuckle. Poor kid. If he really was carrying a torch for her, it would be a monumental waste of time. Lady Penelope would be after someone with sixteen titles and a name like Percival or Tarquin or Montague. Cecil Montague Fitzfabulous the Sixth. Something like that.

Bit of a shame, really. Gordon had seemed so excited when he heard about the meeting. All the tiredness gone, bouncy puppy on steroids mode in place. Poor Virgil. What a trip home. You know, might be about time to check in with them just to see the woeful look of suffering on Virgil's face…

Scott closed his eyes, briefly. It was almost a good feeling. They'd done well, another successful rescue. Five people alive tonight who wouldn't've been if not for IR.

But he'd done just about nothing, and Virgil and Gordon weren't alongside him now. It was dissatisfying, felt unfinished, not to see the green bulk of Thunderbird Two trundling along behind him.

He'd never admit it to anyone, because metaphors were not usually his thing. He liked to look at the world as it was, not through some poetic lens that distorted the truth. But sometimes, when he was tired and alone and indulgent, he thought of One as a thoroughbred racehorse, all sleek and shiny and fast, and Two as a carthorse, big and strong and distinctly un-showy but oh so capable of getting the job done. The two of them charging across the sky, thundering to the rescue, power incarnate as they galloped across the clouds.

Which, extending the metaphor, would make Thunderbird Four a Shetland.

Scott laughed out loud at the thought, but it was a tired sound. A long day. A longer day yesterday. It would be good to get home, get One bedded down, check with Brains about that new oscillator for Three, hear how Alan and Kayo were doing in Sydney. Hear Grandma's thoughts on the world and then sit, maybe a glass of Glenmorangie in hand, and watch the short twilight melt into the Pacific Ocean. Oh, yeah. That was a program he could get behind.

John appeared, and something about his face had Scott sitting forward before his brother said a word.

"Scott, good. I'm glad I've got you."

"So am I." Scott tried for a smile, but it was a dim one. His senses were on full alert.

"We have a situation. I've lost contact with Thunderbird Two."

Scott frowned.

"They're heading to Scotland. Some kind of meeting with Lady Penelope. Maybe they made better time than they –"

"No, Scott. You don't understand." John looked intense, but then, that was his default setting. What was more unusual was the air of puzzlement about him. And behind it all, something awful he was trying to hide but which was as plain to Scott as if he had opened with it. "And neither do I, to be honest. Thunderbird Two is not just not answering – it seems to have vanished."

"Vanished?" All tiredness left him. Scott sat all the way forward, his heart giving a great thump in his chest before settling into the heightened tattoo of action. "An explosion?"

"No. Not in so far as my sensors can tell, anyway. Perhaps a minor one. I'm picking up fluon residue, which could be from her engine. No trace of weapon fire that I can detect with the heat sensors, at least not within a critical distance, and no reports from the GDF stream that suggests unauthorised weapon usage. But I am getting something else - very strong EMF fluctuations at the site."

"Comms?"

"Nothing."

"But- " Scott's mind raced, working through everything he'd been told and everything it might mean in milliseconds. Virgil once compared Scott's mind to a pinball machine, the way his thoughts ricocheted from one thing to another within the strict confines of the mission's needs. Now they scorched from point to point to point in a tactical read as intuitive as it was strategic. "She can't vanish. Homing beacon. Sensor relays. Fail-safes. Contrails."

"They all stop at one precise point." John's eyes were boring into him through the hologram, an unvoiced shout of need. Tell me what I've missed, Scott. Show me how I'm wrong. Prove to me that my brothers aren't gone.

His body made the decision for him before his mind formulated the thought. Thunderbird One completed a fast, long turn, heading back the way she'd come.

"Scott, something else. The GDF has declared a no-fly zone in the North Sea. They've lost three planes today. Same EMF anomaly."

The snort that said all discussion is now finished was completely automatic.

"I'm going to the site."

"Scott, that isn't safe."

"What isn't safe is no sign of Thunderbird Two." Scott glared at him. "I'm going."

"Scott – "

"If Two's down they will have used the escape pod. They'll be in the sea, waiting for pick up. I'm not going to let them down."

"Colonel Casey – "

"Colonel Casey can declare all she wants, I am not going to sit here with my thumb up my butt while my brothers need me!"

"Please." John's eyes were huge, and his voice… Scott remembered the last time when John's voice sounded like that. When Dad's plane disappeared, when John had to realise it and investigate it and then call it in. On the edge and trying so hard to stay grounded when one foot was over the abyss.

The pinball slammed into the corner bumper marked 'fear'. The light of it threw everything else into shadow.

"Scott, please. Your other brothers need you, too."

A moment, when everything inside him railed against the plea, when the thought of just going, dammit, just flying so high and so fast that nothing could stop him, nothing could keep him from finding Virgil, finding Gordon.

And then, a long breath. The slightest of releases.

The ugliness of compromise.

"Alright. Alright, John, I'm going to the GDF base in Moray. I assume that's where Colonel Casey is basing operations from?"

The relief in his brother's face was painful.

"Yeah. She's already waiting for you."

"Huh. That right?"

"She knew there'd be no keeping you away from the search."

"Damn straight." He'd been corralled, but even as he resented it, he saw its strategic sense.

"We're already working together on this. I've got Brains analysing the EMF. Colonel Casey's sending us their readings, too. Every resource they have is going towards solving this."

"Good." Not the word he'd choose, but it was time to be the commander, not the brother. "Okay. John, contact Alan and Kayo. I want Alan back on Tracy Island, keeping an eye on Grandma and Brains."

"And Kayo?"

"I want Kayo with me. This is targeted, John, I know it. I want our security officer working on this as close to onsite as we can."

"Will do."

Another thought, a chance to spare John one task.

"I'll contact Lady Penelope, let her know what's going on."

"Thanks, Scott. Thunderbird Five out."

John's avatar disappeared, and Scott checked his 'bird's speed, her height, the distance to northern Scotland. Too slow, too low, too far. He adjusted what he could, then called Penelope's comm.

The truth was, he knew exactly how she would react to this news, and he needed that now. He needed to hear that deliberate sangfroid, the distracted 'that's very distressing news' delivered as though the terrible danger she was immersed in could barely ruffle the surface of her existential pond. He'd always admired that about her. He knew how much it would mean to him this evening.

"Scott! How nice to see you, and very good timing, too. I'm afraid I have been having some difficulties getting in touch with Thunderbird Two. Quite a nuisance, really, as I have to let them know I'll be meeting them onsite after all. Do you know what the problem is?"

She looked, as ever, quite astonishingly lovely. Somehow, for all that he knew she had a brain as acute as anyone he'd ever met, she managed to retain an air of guilelessness even as she spoke into highly secret comms about world-threatening espionage. He felt those large blue eyes piercing his now, while she smiled as if assuming all the pleasantries of an afternoon tea party.

"Lady Penelope, I've got bad news. Thunderbird Two is missing. We can't trace it anywhere, and we think it's part of a larger attack."

"What do you mean, 'missing'?" A frown marred that perfect face. "You can't find her anywhere on your scanners?"

"No." Scott swallowed. A sudden déjà vu from the hours following his father's disappearance swamped him, as he called one person after another to let them know what might have happened, even as he gave away hope he knew damned well was something his experience and the data just wouldn't let him keep for himself.

But this was different. This was a puzzle with multiple pieces, and this time they had an almost exact site to begin searching from – even if he couldn't get to that site just yet.

"You don't mean an explosion?"

"No, not so far as we know. At least, maybe a minor internal one, John says, but there's a massive EMF interference stopping us from scanning for debris, and – well, we're not ruling out anything at this stage. There doesn't seem to be any trace of weapon usage. But – she's just not on any of John's sensors. And three GDF planes have disappeared in the same general area."

He waited for it. The calmness. The certainty of success in the face of a trifling annoyance.

And it didn't come.

"Oh."

Everything about her was suddenly, icily still. Even through the comms, Scott could see that. He felt compelled to hurry on.

"We're coordinating with the GDF in searching. Brains is already analysing the EMF interference from the spot."

"I- I see."

That focus, usually so laser-like, was turned utterly inwards. Scott had the feeling she couldn't even see him. It was disconcerting to see her so distracted, to hear such vagueness in her voice.

"Don't worry, Penelope. If Two's gone down, they will have used the escape pods. Virgil and Gordon are tough. They'll hang in there until we get to them."

"Yes."

Mentally, Scott chided himself. Of course she'd be upset. It's always different when the danger is directed at people you care about. What did he expect of her? She'd been a good friend of the family for years now. Hell, he knew how he'd feel if it were Penny herself in trouble.

"We could use you at the GDF base. I know you're up north somewhere."

Even as he watched, he saw her take a deep breath and tilt her head up, coming back from whatever internal refuge she'd sought.

"Right. Well, it appears the information I was about to share with Virgil and - and Gordon may have been too late after all."

"You had something that relates to all this?"

"It's possible. But it can wait until I see you. Parker, how long would it take to get to Lossiemouth?"

From off the edge of the hologram, Scott heard the lugubrious tones of Penelope's chauffeur, Parker.

"H'approximately twenty minutes, m'lady. If we take 'er up."

"Do so, Parker. Scott? We'll see you soon. FAB1 out."

Scott took his own deep breath. That encounter had left him unexpectedly wrong-footed. But it was done now; time to focus on what remained.

This was a trust exercise. Trust in John and Brains to find answers their way. Trust in Colonel Casey and the GDF to back him up in the field. Trust in Alan and Grandma to keep each other safe. Trust in Kayo to be everything he knew she was, their champion against the evil that sought to deny their good.

And trust in his missing brothers to keep themselves alive while International Rescue did its job and found them.

 **Notes:**

The piece of music I imagine as the source for the painting is 'Intro' from Sweet Jane on Lou Reed's live album, Rock and Roll Animal. One of my favorite albums of all time, and the intro track with its soaring guitar has always taken me on a flight. 0.00- 3.30 here:  
watch?v=YoytmVwcsB4


	3. Chapter 3

**Working Holiday**

 **Summary:**

Kayo and Alan get involved.

 **Chapter Text**

Pittwater.

An ugly name for a beautiful spot. Kayo sighed and stretched out her toes, letting her feet down into the water that lapped beneath the restaurant's balcony. From here to her right she could see Kuring-gai National Park, just a dark shape against a brilliant moonlit night, and directly in front of her was the calm waters of the inlet. A perfect place for a restful little break, free of care. She worked her shoulders, rested her head sideways on the railing, and scanned the room.

This part of the restaurant was a veranda, built out over the water, softly lit with candles in lanterns. A faux rustic look that felt right in this unspoiled area, with timber floorboards and rough-hewn tables swinging from the veranda roof, and careless young people clustered around a synth player who was as good as any she'd ever heard. It took a lot of money to look this homespun.

Scott had really meant it when he put his hands on her shoulders and said, "You need a break, Kayo. Why don't you go with Alan, get some sun, have some umbrella drinks."

At least, his fore brain, logical cortex did.

His lizard brain screamed, "Go along and protect my little brother!"

Kayo was good at hearing people's lizard brains. She did it all the time; catching that one guy in the crowd whose angry id was about to overtake his ability to reason, hearing the smack of avaricious lips in the amygdala of that other guy plotting a heist. She listened for it now, in the low chatter coming from the group by the music as they jockeyed for sex, in the schmooze of the Gold Coast property developer with the nineteen year old on his arm.

Only – now, that was interesting. As her eyes caught Kayo's, the girl's blinked into overt naiveté. A mask. Kayo let her own gaze drift on by, and she caught it, the little tell of satisfaction in the girl's face. Ah. An amateur. But one fishing for a big Queensland grouper, by the look of it.

Well, good luck to her. She was no threat, and that was the only thing Kayo wanted to know about her.

What Scott didn't get, because Scott had a million things on his mind more important than Kayo's wellbeing, was that the only place she could ever relax was on Tracy Island. So this was another mission, albeit a low-key one that she could do in beautiful surroundings, listening to stunning music, and nursing the foofiest mocktail she'd ever seen in her life.

"Kayo! Hey!" Alan erupted into the room, excusing himself as he trod on toes, backing away from a disgruntled woman only to bump into another. "Sorry. Whoops. Heh, coming through. Excuse me!"

"Sit down Alan, before you injure someone."

"Oh. Hey." He plumped down beside her on the veranda as gracelessly as a baby rhino in a mud-bath, and turned to her with a beam of unfettered joy. "Oh, man, Kayo. Today was awesome. You should have seen me!"

"Doing what?"

"They have the best jet-ski things! Like, they're jet-skis right, only they have a hover function and they've built this amaaazing kinda water feature thing that takes you through the bush and off this cliff – I'm telling you, Kayo, an honest to god cliff that you hit so hard and you just go arggh over the edge and the hover kicks in and oh, man. Best ride ever."

She didn't tell him she'd been watching the whole time.

"Sounds amazing."

"Whew. I'm beat. Is that nice? Can I have one?" That was for her mocktail. She glanced at it, then handed it over.

"Be my guest. Not really my thing."

"Boy. You know - " he took a long slurp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then continued his interrupted thought, " - this sure beats mudslides in Bolivia."

"That was yesterday," she reminded him. "Today they were playing with industrial waste dumps in Siberia."

"Oh, yeah. Wow. Bit different here, huh?"

"Bit." She kicked her toes more vigorously, sending water rippling out into the candlelight reflection.

Alan finished her drink in another long, single gulp, then put the glass on the low railing and rested his chin on his hands.

"So what are we gonna do tomorrow?"

"Well, I was thinking we –"

"Did you know they've got turbo ski-sailing? You strap a turbo to your back and put on skis and –"

"That sounds wonderful, Alan, but we promised to visit Lady Penelope's property."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." His face fell briefly, then lit again. "Is Lady P gonna be there?"

"Not this time. But we promised we'd check on the rebuilding, let her know how that's coming along."

"Yeah, I remember. Still, she's got wicked horses. There's that one, that kinda red one with the black mane and tail? She was the best. Maybe we could go riding up on the ridge?"

"Probably."

"Clancy! That was her name."

Kayo tilted her head at him.

"Was that the one that followed you around like a puppy last time we were there?"

Alan chuckled. "Oh, yeah. She just wouldn't leave me alone. We had a great time."

"You seem to manage that most places," Kayo said.

He shrugged. "I guess. It's like Gordon says, if guys like us can't enjoy life, we're doing it wrong."

"I think Gordon is going to be very envious when he hears what you've been up to."

"Yeah. Me too." He yawned, extravagantly. "Well, I'm going to bed. Clancy's gonna need all my energy tomorrow."

"After we've checked the rebuilding."

"Yeah, yeah." He got up, and offered her his hand, which she took, with a gracious nod. As he held her hand, a buzzing began on her wrist. He looked at it in surprise.

"Is that - ?"

"Yes. Excuse me for a sec." With significantly less drama than Alan's entrance, she wove her way through the crowd and onto the deserted jetty at the end of the veranda, where she quickly and smoothly ducked down to hunker on the lower landing, hidden from sight from all but the flying foxes in the sky above her.

"Thunderbird Shadow here. Receiving, International Rescue."

"Hello Kayo." John's face, looking tired. "How's everything in sunny Sydney?"

"Oh, you know. Fending off bronzed boys and girls. Watching Alan find the thrills he can't find in his boring day job. This isn't regular check in time, John?"

"It isn't?" John glanced to the side and then did an elaborate face palm. "Sorry, Kayo. I think it's past my bedtime."

"For all of you, by the sounds of that Russian adventure."

"Sadly, we got a call-out after less than three hours' sleep. They're headed off to the Arctic Circle just now."

"John." It was an admonishment.

"I know. But the GDF couldn't get there for some reason, and Scott made the call. I think we'll be on stand down after this one, though."

"See that you are." It wasn't often that she got to scold John, and the quizzical grin on his face acknowledged that.

"Aye aye. Just you see if you can get some down time yourself."

"Whatever do you mean? I'm on holidays right now."

"Riiight. I mean it, Kayo."

She gave a rueful chuckle.

"Will do. Shadow out."

She was aware of his presence before he'd even stepped onto the landing.

"That was John?"

"Yes." She smiled at him. "Your brothers are busy."

"Yeah." Alan stood with his hands in his board shorts, looking across the dark water to where a smattering of lights shone amongst the bush on the opposite shore. "I wish – I wish they could be here with us, too. You know, we haven't had a holiday as a family since forever."

She joined him in staring over the inlet, letting the scents of the frangipani and eucalypt wash over her in the heavy night air.

"I know. It would be nice. Get everybody together and head off for somewhere magical – like a tropical island."

"Hey." He elbowed her in the side. "I mean a real holiday. With jet-skis."

"And cliffs. You've got both on Tracy Island, you know." She held up her hand. "Only teasing. I know what you meant. Come on. Let's get back to the B and B, and maybe we can plan a real holiday to spring on the others."

Alan was delighted. "You mean it?"

"Well, it will take some convincing – of Scott, in particular – but yes, I do. I think we've all been working too hard. And with others around maybe even I could take a break, too."

"Pffft." Alan turned to climb back up onto the jetty. "You're on holiday already."

The B and B was nestled amongst huge jacarandas and jasmine only a hundred yards down the street. It felt good to get back to it, to the kindly Maltese owner who fussed over Alan as if he were her own grandson, to a gloriously quiet room with oversized pictures of the Last Supper and Maria Callas, a tiny balcony, and a wide, white bed that begged to be slept in.

She stood at the window, careful to switch the light out first, and looked up at the southern stars, so familiar to her she could trace the path of Thunderbird Five against them as if it were on a bright golden cord wrapped around the Earth.

"Good luck, guys. And get some sleep, John," she murmured, before going to do that herself.

She always slept lightly away from the island. She would have sworn she woke a half second before the comms unit lit up. The faintest of glows was showing on the eastern horizon as she rolled over in bed and reached for it.

"Thunderbird Shadow here. Receiving, International Rescue."

John's face, and once more, she heard a lizard brain screaming. His eyes. His breathing. The tightness of his shoulders. The way his jaw barely moved as he spoke.

"Kayo. I need you to get to Scotland, to GDF base Lossiemouth, as soon as you can. We have a – Thunderbird Two is missing, and it's probably part of something bigger. GDF planes are gone, too. I'll brief you more fully on the way. Tell Alan to take a hire plane home and – "

"Wait." Her mind worked quickly, but she needed more intel. "You think this is an attack?"

John was doing his best to keep the emotion out of his voice, but for all that she knew he thought himself an iceman, his distress was so clear to her she felt like telling him to stop trying.

"We don't know. I was just talking to Virgil and the comms shut down, the scanners showed nothing, everything just – it just disappeared."

"And other planes are missing, too? The GDF's in on this?"

"Yes, we're working with them now. At least, Brains is trying to analyse the EMF from the site, though he's sick, so - "

"Wait, Brains is sick? With what?"

"He wasn't sure." John frowned. "What are you thinking?"

"That Alan's not going home alone. Not until I know that Brains being ill is not part of something else."

The thought clearly shocked John.

"Are you saying that someone could have - what, poisoned Brains? Infected him?"

"I don't know." Kayo swung her legs out of bed, determined and calm. "But I'll take Alan back and make sure. Scott can manage without me for a few extra hours."

"I'll let him know." John looked drained, and Kayo felt the sudden urge to reach through the comms and hug him.

"John, it will be alright. I'll make sure Tracy Island is secure, then I'll come and join you. Kayo out."

Getting Alan to get up, get dressed and get on the road to the airport wasn't hard. He surprised her; one look at her face and he was out of bed and hustling down to the carpark without a murmur.

Perhaps she was screaming, too.

They took off into the sunrise, a brilliant arc of orange beneath a lemon coloured sky. Alan was quiet on the trip home too, another surprise.

She got mostly silence, so that by the time she brought the Tracy family private jet to land on the island's public runway and felt the gladness of home briefly trump the fear playing up and down her spine, she was unsure what to expect from him.

Alan climbed out slowly – a little stiff from the jet-skis.

"Right. Alan, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Can't say the same for Brains, or - " but he couldn't even manage the names of his missing brothers, and on a strong impulse grounded in her own need, Kayo pulled him into a hug.

"We'll find them, Alan, I promise you."

And that was foolish, but if she was wrong, that would be the least of her sorrows.

"You'll find them, you mean. " He pulled back. Where she might have expected only a teenager's mulishness, she saw a man's determination she could respect. "I've got to come with you, Kayo. I can be another pair of eyes, another pair of hands. You need me."

"Alan, you're needed here."

"For what? To babysit Grandma?"

"To protect your grandmother, yes, if it comes to that. Alan, we don't know what we're dealing with here. It could even be some freak natural event, for all we know. But your grandmother is stuck here, alone with Brains, and we need them both protected."

"I know. I get it. I do." He looked hard at her, and she could see how deeply unhappy he was. "But it's Virgil and Gordon, Kayo. They're out there, somewhere, and I'm just – just sitting on the bench, back up that's 10,000 miles away from the action."

Okay, that was veering more towards the teenager she expected.

"Alan, that's nonsense. You have a vital role, and you know it. And it starts now. The first thing you're going to do is go and get blood and stool samples from Brains."

"Ugh. What?"

She took him by the upper arm and shook it a little.

"It may well be that he is part of this – as a victim, I mean. He's suddenly ill the day Virgil and Gordon go missing? That doesn't strike you as just a little too coincidental?"

"Whoa. You serious?"

"Deadly."

Alan swallowed.

"You've got a scary mind, you know that? Okay. I'm on body fluid patrol."

"Has Virgil shown you..?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's part of our training. Never know when we might have to test for contamination or viral disease. You know, some creepy guy with a vial of stuff that makes people into mutants or giants or something."

"Ye-es. Let's not get too carried away, shall we?" She patted him, briskly this time. "Why don't you go and find Brains, while I talk to Grandma?"

"Are you patronising me?"

"Constantly."

"Cool." He took the steps three at a time, stiffness suddenly gone, and disappeared into the main section of the house.

Kayo, however, didn't follow him immediately. She turned in to the hidden entrance of the underground chambers that housed International Rescue and quickly went to her own equipment compartment, pulling out an EMF meter. John had mentioned anomalies, so she wanted to be doubly sure Tracy Island remained immune. She carefully checked first one area, then the next, looking as she did for any indications that someone other than herself, Brains or the Tracys had ever been there.

It took her close to an hour to be satisfied with the entire IR complex, and when she finished she allowed herself a small smile of relief.

It had always been unlikely, but security personnel who were not as conscientious as they should be soon ended up fired, in jail, or dead, and she didn't want any of them.

By the time she made it upstairs, Ruth Tracy had sent Brains to bed and Alan down to the lab with the samples.

"So," she said, gravel-voiced and kind as ever, "How are you holding up, dear?"

"Oh, you know." Kayo slid onto the kitchen stool and gave a weak but genuine smile. "Swinging between thinking about anything in the recent security stream from GDF that I've missed and worrying myself sick over Gordon and Virgil. How about you?"

"The same. Well, not so much of the security stuff. More thinking I've gone and poisoned Brains with my cooking just when we need him most. And then, thinking there's nothing I can do to help find my grandsons."

"There's plenty you can do." Kayo took one of her hands in her own. "You can keep Alan focused and sane for starters. And Brains will need some good old-fashioned coddling, by the sound of it."

"That he will." Ruth patted the hand holding hers. "And I know you too well to think you've missed anything. You need to stop worrying about that and start coming up with some answers for our boys. I don't intend to lose them, Kayo."

"Nor do I."

"So." Ruth Tracy let go of her hands and clapped hers together. "Where do we start?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4** **: Hurry up and wait**

 **Notes:**

An awful week for the world. It's now that we need TAG more than ever. Yes, it's a TV show, and a children's one at that; but it's about people helping others, without regard for race, gender, sexuality or religion. It's based on the concept of kindness and self-sacrifice and celebrates caring. We need that now.

 **Chapter Text**

GDF Base, Lossiemouth. Tuesday, March 11th, 0750 hours.

It was always strange to re-live a day, especially when it began in the bright light of Sydney, continued to the balmy dusk of a tropical island, and re-started under squalling rain and heavy gray clouds in northern Scotland.

And since the clock had ticked over to 0750 as she entered the main operations building, it was now officially Day Two of what she classified in her mind as Code Hilang. Missing. Lost. She'd applied that code once before, of course, when Jeff Tracy went missing, somewhere over the Pacific. It was a sour feeling when she found herself using it again for two of his sons.

Inside the building GDF personnel scurried in that oh-so busy and important way that the military adopted when they didn't want to get noticed by an irate officer and reminded of their unfortunate parentage and likely demise at the end of said officer's boot. Kayo showed her credentials at the entrance and, after less posturing than she sometimes received, was waved through.

She couldn't help it. She should, of course. These GDF personnel were all doing the best they could, fighting the good fight, and she welcomed their resources and input. She really shouldn't feel the way she did, but it was just too tempting.

So damned grateful to Jeff Tracy and IR that this was not her life.

And, rather more egregiously, so damned superior.

Looking at the GDF junior officers, diligent and hamstrung and straitjacketed by a world of regulation and rank, she knew she could never find a place amongst them. She needed to be able to make her own choices, set her own rules. With Jeff Tracy and his sons she could flex her mind and her muscles and make a destiny free of the internecine madness that enshrouded her father and her uncle, and without the interference of a lumbering military complex.

Maybe she shouldn't feel so superior, as she skirted the three junior officers standing in a hopelessly poor tactical grouping by the security entrance. (Not a decent line of sight amongst them. Had she wished to do so, she could have them each incapacitated in three seconds, and it would barely delay her path to the operations room). It could well be that her uncle, for all his incarceration in Britain's top secret secure facility, was at work now. Her freedom from him would only ever extend as far as the circumstance of his existence allowed it. His currency was pain and fear, and he would always be a wealthy man.

Right now, that pain and fear was embodied in the far corner of the operations room, head down, talking earnestly with Colonel Casey.

"Scott!"

His head shot up, and a small, weary smile came to his face.

"Kayo. Glad to see you here."

"I'm sorry I was delayed. I had to return to HQ to get my ride." He came to meet her and, unrestrained by protocol, she put her hand on his shoulder. The briefest gesture of human comfort, and all she knew he would allow himself until his brothers were found. "What's the situation?"

"Good to have you, Kayo." Colonel Casey nodded to her. "This is the sit-rep screen."

The wall in front of them was a map, one that rippled and shifted to represent actual conditions and currents in the North Sea as recorded and relayed forward by multiple buoys. An orange marker showed a point 180 kilometres north of the uppermost coastline. Three other markers, two in purple, one in green, indicated other sites within a hundred kilometres of the first marker.

"The orange represents Thunderbird Two's last known position. This," and she pointed to the green marker, "was GDF Flight 409, carrying several senior personnel and six flight crew, lost at 2300 hours the night before last. And these, the purple ones, are the search and rescue planes lost at 1500 hours yesterday looking for 409. Each one held two pilots and two crew members. That is a total of seventeen GDF personnel missing, and two members of International Rescue."

"And so far we're no nearer to finding out anything about what brought them down."

"We'll figure it out, Scott," Kayo said, reassuringly. She watched as his mouth tightened against words that would do no good beyond venting the frustration that rode him. "Between John, me and you and the GDF, we'll get to the bottom of this."

His mouth lost the battle. "Look at it, Kayo!" he pointed to the map, where indigo swirls showed massive waves and counter-currents. "It's right there, and we're so close, and we can't get any closer."

"I know."

Scott leant on his knuckles against the table and blew out his breath. "What's the latest with Brains?"

"That's why I was delayed – I waited to get the test results. It's definitely the Townsville virus. Don't worry," she said, forestalling the concern she could see immediately in the faces near her. "I didn't have any direct contact with him, and that's the only way of transmitting it. We're even pretty sure when and where he contracted it. Last weekend, at the convention in Brisbane, when an attendee fainted and Brains helped her. I called Brisbane Hospital and got confirmation that a guest was diagnosed with the virus just after it."

"Is he going to be alright?"

"Fever, diarrhea, head and joint pain, nausea. He's going to be very unwell for at least five days. But the doctors in Brisbane said there was no point transporting him there only to be isolated again. He's getting looked after. As fate would have it, the anti-viral medication Brains picked up to refresh our supplies on the weekend contains an anti-pathogen for the Townsville virus. I've had a shot, and so have Alan and Grandma. They're taking full precautions."

Scott nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Kayo. Just – just bad timing, I guess."

"It looks that way." Kayo shifted to stand hipshot, feeling the weariness of her doubled day steal over her as she found it echoed in his face. "Have you gotten any rest yet?"

"Later." Scott looked over to where Colonel Casey and a major were conversing in low voices. Colonel Casey glanced up and nodded something in confirmation to someone standing by the door, who immediately spoke into a comm unit. There was a grimness to that signal that brought Kayo's body to full alert.

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure – " Scott began, but before he could continue a large woman entered the room, followed by several aides. She held her head high and moved with the kind of stride that embodied a certainty of progress beyond any possible obstacle. Her eyes quartered the space like lasers.

Kayo always thought Colonel Casey had presence, but this woman not so much filled the room as stripped it bare and forensically examined the bones.

"Colonel."

"General."

She turned towards Scott and Kayo.

"You must be the famous International Rescue people I have heard so much about." She put out her hand. "General Kelela Afemui. I admire your work."

Scott shook her hand, half bowing. Kayo couldn't blame him; this was a woman who demanded respect before a word was spoken.

"Scott Tracy. This is Tanusha Kyrano."

"Kayo," she corrected him, shaking the general's hand in turn.

"A pleasure to meet you both, though not under these circumstances. Colonel, a word."

"General?" Scott might look tired, but his voice was firm. "If this is anything to do with the search for our missing people, I'd really appreciate it if we could stick around."

The general stared at him, before nodding, briefly.

"Very well. I've just come from the World Council meeting in London. They are not best pleased to have a significant area of air and sea unnavigable. What are you doing about that, Colonel?"

Colonel Casey, to her credit, didn't flinch.

"At the moment we are using smaller drones to try to penetrate the area without detection."

"And how is that going?"

A tightening of the colonel's lips. "Not successfully as yet. We believe that there is definitely human agency behind this phenomenon, and that they are using a directed anti-energy weapon similar to the type used by Lou Wood in the Flux Wave of 2048. Each drone, no matter how small, has been targeted and downed in the same manner as the GDF and IR planes."

That this was new information to Scott was apparent in the way he straightened and frowned at Colonel Casey. The general ignored him.

"So what is your plan?"

"As we speak, we are adapting one of our current TI 70 jets by attaching a double strength terrellium alloy coating on its exterior, and a back-up anti-flux capacitor internally."

"I see." The Tongan woman glanced at the map and its ever changing swirls of colour. "And when will this be ready?"

"We have to temper the alloy and mould it to exacting specifics. It will be at least this time tomorrow before it is ready."

"Another twenty four hours?" Scott's exclamation met matching flickers of annoyance from both of the GDF women.

"Yes, Scott." Colonel Casey was firm. "I am asking a pilot to volunteer to fly this plane. I intend to give him or her every chance of doing so safely."

"Hell, I'll fly it," Scot said. "You don't have to go looking."

Kayo knew what Colonel Casey's response would be before she even opened her mouth.

"I cannot allow non-GDF personnel to take this flight, Scott."

"I'll sign any kind of waiver you want, Colonel."

"I'm sorry. No."

"So for the next twenty-four hours we do nothing?"

"For the next twenty four hours," Colonel Casey said, icily, "we continue to try to analyse the EMF readings we have recorded. I have my best people on it."

"Come on, Scott." Kayo took his arm, gently. "Why don't you take me to our quarters? I presume we have some somewhere on base?"

"You're taking Colonel Massie's room over in the living quarters. She is currently on assignment in Mombasa. I've had an extra cot put in there for you." To someone who didn't know Colonel Casey, her voice would still sound official in its tone; but Kayo heard the undercurrent of sympathy in there.

"Thank you. Come on, Scott."

She shepherded him out of the room before he could find less polite ways to express his growing frustration. They were always operating under the sufferance of the GDF command; now, with seventeen of their people missing, was not the time to put that forbearance to the test.

But she understood how much this situation would claw at Scott's soul. Everything in him was demanding he do something, at whatever cost, in order to find his brothers. To be sidelined like this, particularly when it meant asking another to risk their life, was the deepest anathema to him.

Kayo knew the extent of his bitter helplessness because she felt it herself.

They headed out into the cold air and crossed the compound to the living quarters. Up two flights of stairs, Scott stomping on each one, until they reached a pale olive corridor that featured a number of identical doors with numbers on each one. Scott stopped at number 12 and entered with a tap on his comm.

"Security code's embedded in my phone," he said, waving her through.

The room was small, neat and decorated with a number of family holographs and Batik wall hangings. Watching someone else's family smiling and waving from the bureau did not help either of them, given the situation.

Colonel Massie had a view out of the small window that looked across the wide inlet to the hills across the sea, so different from the inlet Kayo had been relaxing in the night before. Today the sea was slate gray, with white caps stippled over the heaving mass. Kayo watched it briefly and disciplined her mind not to think of her two adopted brothers somewhere out there on waves just as bleak and far more violent. She sat down on the small portable bed. For a moment she wondered how Scott was going to fit on either of the beds, given their shortness.

That was always presupposing she could get him to think about bed at all.

"Have you spoken to John lately?"

"An hour ago." Scott prowled the tiny space, briefly picking up objects and putting them down again without ever registering what they were. "He hasn't got anything new to tell us."

"Well, I've got a question for you." Kayo sat forward, her elbows on her knees. "What's the time frame for the escape pod?"

Scott frowned. "Time frame? You mean – "

"I mean, the escape pod would have jettisoned shortly after we lost contact, right? So, given the position of Thunderbird Two and the prevailing weather conditions of the time – when is it likely to drift out from under that EMF cloud and into our scanners?"

"Damn. I should have thought of that." Scott tapped his comm unit, and John's avatar appeared. The usual paleness of his face had progressed beyond extra-terrestrial white and now looked a hard-earned gray. "John, it's Scott. How long do you think the escape pod will take to get north of the EMF readings?"

"The pod? Uh – I don't know. The current – I used to know the current in the North Atlantic."

"Ask EOS to do the math," Kayo suggested, and John startled.

"Kayo?"

"I'm here. Ask EOS, John."

John blinked at her, then nodded. "Sure. Uh, EOS – "

'Already done, John. Given the rate of current and the prevailing wind and wave direction, coupled with the relative weight of Thunderbird Two's escape pod with both Virgil and Gordon Tracy in it, the pod should be clear of the effect of the EMF trace in 45 to 52 hours from the time of entry into the sea.'

"Which makes it – " John was clearly trying to work out the time.

"1300 hours tomorrow at the earliest." Kayo stood. "So we know that. Two other things I need to check before I put my foot down."

"Your what now?"

"First," she said, raising a finger and ignoring Scott's comment, "where's Lady Penelope? I thought she was joining you here."

"She did. She and Parker and two of the GDF engineering officers have gone off to eastern Caithness. Something about a cave."

"Have you heard back yet?"

"I haven't checked in for a while." Scott dragged a hand through his hair. "I've been working in the operations room, and – "

"Fine. Why don't we do that now?" Kayo tapped her own comm unit. "Thunderbird Shadow to FAB1. Come in?"

Lady Penelope Creighton Ward appeared, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, her eyes clouded.

"Kayo! Lovely to see you. I was just going to contact Scott. Is he there with you?"

"We're all here, Lady Penelope," Scott said, from behind Kayo's shoulder.

"Ah, so John's listening in? Good. I have news to report. Turns out we were on to something. We found the cave I told you about, Scott. Two local girls found it while exploring along the coastline here, near Nybster. It was tucked away under some very impressive overhangs. Only an uncommonly low tide and sheer luck that allowed them to spot anything at all."

"And?"

"It appears this cave is nothing of the sort. It's a submarine base, Scott."

"Submarines!" Scott's eyes glowed with something Kayo might have called the thrill of the hunt if the stakes weren't so crushingly high.

"And that's not all." Penelope turned her comm towards an image in her hand. "Recognise this?"

John's eyebrows rose. "That's the Luddite symbol!"

"The Luddites? But I thought they were all taken into custody?" Scott stood stock still in the middle of the room, a brightly painted tchotchke incongruous in his hand.

"Apparently not." John's face assumed the kind of diligent intensity that showed he was pursuing information off-screen. "At least, two of the ringleaders had siblings and other known associates. There was a lot of speculation that the group was bigger than the London arrests. There was just nothing the security forces could find to charge them with at the time."

"The Luddites." Scott resumed pacing. "But would they have the smarts to do this? I mean, yeah, they had the Lou Wood version in London. But this is something else. This has got the GDF experts scratching their heads."

"Who knows? But someone in there had to have some ability." Penelope sounded thoughtful. "I always did think the ones we caught in London were a little light on in the brains department."

Scott flipped the tchotchke in his hands. "So. A submarine patrolling the North Sea? Would explain the different points of attack. Have the GDF with you contacted Colonel Casey?"  
"Filling her in as we speak." Penelope's face lacked her usual vivacity, but in its stead was a kind of determination Kayo didn't think she'd ever seen on her friend before. "So what is our plan of action?"

"They're sending someone up tomorrow." Something of a growl in Scott's voice; he did not appreciate taking a non-participant role. "But at least now, thanks to you, they'll know what they're looking for. Why don't you come back here?"

"Yes, I think that would be best. Parker?"

"M'Lady."

"Back to GDF Base Lossiemouth. Oh dear, that is simply the most awful name."

"Yes, m'lady."

"See you soon, Scott, Kayo."

Lady Penelope winked out of existence, and Scott suddenly seemed aware of the little object in his hands, placing it hurriedly on a nearby shelf.

"Okay, Kayo. You said you had two things?"

Kayo stifled a grin. "Right. Before I left, Brains suggested via Alan that I contact Moffy, see what she could bring to the analysis of this EMF. I tried before I left and just before landing, but she's not answering her phone."

Scott turned to John. "Can we trace her?"

"It's possible." John looked taken aback. "But there are ethics involved, Scott; she's a private person. If she wants to keep her whereabouts to herself, do we really have the right to track her down?"

"You can do it?" Scott persisted. John frowned.

"EOS can do a lot of things. Doesn't mean she should. This is a slippery slope."

"This is an emergency." For Scott the problem solver there was no question.

"Kayo? What do you think?"

She took her time answering, weighing up the obvious benefits against the less tangible but real dangers of abuse of power. It occurred to her, and for the first time, that this was likely to be a battle John had fought before, and with himself. Access to and influence over a weapon – a mind – like EOS' brought with it particular responsibilities.

"John, I don't think she'd mind. I think she'd want to help, if she knew."

"There," said Scott, triumphantly. "EOS – "

'I have already tracked the scientist in question. She's in a place near Llandudno, in Wales. A scientific writing retreat. I can turn on her phone if you'd like me to, John?'

A long pause. Haggard, Kayo thought, her heart giving a lurch of sympathy; that's the word to describe him right now. She tried to convey something of her fellow feeling to John through her eyes, but he looked resolutely away as he finally spoke.

"Go ahead, EOS."

"Wait." Scott's intervention surprised them both. "We'll need permission from Colonel Casey to forward the same specs to her as we sent to Brains. I'll go and talk to her now."

"Uh, before you do, guys." Kayo stood up. She was smaller than the boys, but that didn't mean she couldn't make herself heard when she need to. "I need your word on something. Both of you."

John blinked at her; Scott paused, halfway to the door.

"When you come back, you're getting at least four hours' sleep."

"Kayo, come on." Scott waved towards the door. "How can you expect us to sleep? The GDF are going to keep working through the day."

"The GDF haven't been up for more than thirty five hours of the last thirty eight. The GDF," she continued as Scott's face twisted into resistance, "weren't completing two physically demanding rescues in hideous conditions."

"That's our brothers out there!" And some of Scott's frustration found its way towards her. She didn't mind. This was easy stuff, really.

"Guys. They need you at your best. You both know this." Kayo put her hands on her hips. "What did your dad always say? Tired minds are sloppy minds. The GDF will keep working on ways to get the sub, and in the meantime we need to be ready to get our boys from the water sometime after lunch tomorrow. I can stay up until this evening, fill you in on anything that happens if anything happens. John? Tell me you're not exhausted right now."

He sighed heavily.

"You're right. I know you're right. Just feels so – " He stopped, and spread his hands expressively.

"I know. Believe me, I do. But you both need some sleep. You can't even do basic math right now, John. And Scott?" She waited until he looked at her, then gave him her most direct gaze. "I wouldn't fly with you just now. And I wouldn't trust you to pick my brothers up out of the sea."

Directness was always the best choice with Scott. His first response was to lift his chin in defiance – but then his innate good sense came to their mutual rescue, and he gave a soft snort of compliance.

"Okay. You win. Lemme go tell the colonel about all this and then I promise I'll hit the sack. You too, John."

"Mmm. I'll see what I can do." John's avatar flickered away, and Scott was left smiling ruefully at Kayo.

"What are the odds on him actually doing that?"

"Better than even. He knows it's the right thing to do. Plus, he's scared of me."

Scott chuckled, then moved out the door. "Be back in a bit."

Kayo was left alone. Restlessly, she went to the window, looked out first to the sea and then to the left, to where the night shift was going off duty, streaming through the security gates towards the car park and hover bus depot. The rain was beginning to squall again, slapping against coats and hats and boots, creating black puddles to trap weary feet, and Tracy Island felt a million miles away.

Suddenly, all sense of superiority was gone. Most of these people would be going home to families, safe, secure, loving families who would welcome them in and ask them how their night went before gathering around for those mundane little rituals that constituted normal family life. Like Virgil checking on Grandma whenever he got back from a rescue, and Gordon saying hello to the fish in his aquarium before insisting on flopping full length on the couch whenever he did the same. She envied those people with all her heart.

And the others – they probably knew the people missing in the three lost planes. They shared her anguish, her incipient sorrow. There was no superiority in mourning.

She lent her head against the cool glass and closed her eyes against her own tiredness. Tomorrow, some time after 1300 hours, seemed as far away as home. And all she had to get her through to it were two over-tired men and her own over-active imagination.

Well, whatever it took, she had to find it. Her family needed her – the brother with her, the ones far away but always in her heart. Whatever it took. Now was the time to repay Jeff Tracy for the life and family he gifted her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5** **: Ashtray on a motorbike**

 **Chapter Text**

When he became captain in the USAF, Scott knew that he surprised a few people with his attitude towards mistakes. It was one of the earliest lessons his father ever taught him; that a commander who doesn't acknowledge and learn from his or her mistakes might be wearing the braid and pulling the pay, but was no kind of leader.

So Scott had no problem acknowledging that Kayo was right and he was wrong. His reluctance to put his head down the day before had been a mistake; when he did finally succumb and got four hours sleep, he woke with renewed purpose and energy, and a thankfulness that his little sister was as forthright as she was. A little before midnight he went back to bed and actually slept for another six hours.

He woke to the sound of rain slashing against the tiny window as if someone was intermittently turning a fire hose on it. The worst kind of weather for sea rescues, but Scott had a good feeling about today, the first time he'd felt that in too many mornings. Whatever the wind and the water was doing, when the escape pod holding his younger brothers appeared on John's scanners some time later today, he was heading north to collect them. Indulgent to imagine the variations on "Boy, am I glad to see you!" he could expect, and if he was a superstitious type of person, probably dangerous as well. But the math was clear, the physics complex but calculated, and the alternative was –

The alternative was Gordon and Virgil trapped on the surface of the sea in a downed plane. How long could Thunderbird Two float? It would be relatively watertight. Hell, if it came to that, they could pile into Thunderbird Four. Virgil was probably even now begging Gordon to stop investigating some damned type of fascinating underwater cave, or interesting jellyfish, or 'hey, look at that basking shark, wow Virgil, you don't usually see them up here this time of year' and just get their asses back to port. He pictured the two of them hunched up together on Four's tiny cockpit, just about in each other's lap, and he almost laughed. Would have had a quiet chuckle, if Kayo wasn't sound asleep on the other cot.

It was odd, sharing a room with her. He realised as he lay there, cramped but warm, that he had never seen her asleep before. When Gordon and Alan slept, sprawled out on the couches or the floor or the poolside, they looked like kids; hell, they were still kids, both of them, so that made sense. But Kayo's face stayed the way it was when she was awake - even sleeping, she had an air of capability and calmness about her. Scott had the briefest moment of regret for that loss of innocence; her childhood was gone too soon and too long ago to linger on in her subconscious.

Thinking of Alan brought the date to mind, and he jolted upright. Hell. March 12th. Alan's birthday. Poor kid; not a happy one, with just Grandma and Brains for company and two of his brothers missing. Still, chances were it would turn out to be the best birthday ever, when he got Gordon on the comm to sing 'Happy Birthday' to him in that obnoxious chipmunk voice he could pull out whenever he wanted to drive Scott crazy.

What time would it be on Tracy Island? He scrambled over for his comm unit, doing some quick calculations. Should have called at midnight last night. Alan was probably finishing dinner after a day of waiting for news and looking out for Brains. Dammit!

He had the sudden awareness of someone watching him. A glance to the spare cot showed him Kayo was awake.

"Hey. Morning. Sleep well?"

She stretched under the covers.

"Not bad. There's a kind of institutional smell in here, though…"

"Mmm. Boot polish and starch?"

"More salutes and heel clicking." Kayo sat up, yawning. "Or maybe just too much testosterone."

"You'd be immune to that by now, wouldn't you?"

"You'd think." Kayo watched him, curiously. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Alan. It was his birthday – is his birthday. He didn't get – hey, Grandma."

From an ocean away, his grandmother's face. "Hello yourself. Any news?"

"Nothing new. We're thinking later today."

"Yes, John told me. Are you calling for Alan?"

"Is he there?" Scott sighed. "I'm sorry, Grandma, I should have called before."

"Of course he's here. He just leaves his comm with me because we're following strict quarantine procedures. How's Kayo?"

"I'm fine, Grandma," Kayo called over.

"Good to hear it. And what about you, Scott?"

"Kayo's keeping me in line."

"Someone's gotta have some sense over there, and if I can't be there…"

"Yeah, yeah. Stop ganging up on me."

Grandma chuckled, then fixed him with a look that quelled most sentient life forms. "You take care of each other. And don't forget to call me when you find them, whatever time it is here."

"I won't," Scott said, his voice gentle.

"Scotty!" Alan's excited noise was heard before he appeared beside Grandma. "Hey, Scott, any news?"

"Not yet. But I have a good feeling about today. Hey, happy birthday, Squirt."

Alan made a face, more comical still thanks to the distortion provided by the curtains in the room behind his avatar. "Not really. I'm thinking we postpone a week, so I can have all my family here for one huge blowout."

"Sounds like a plan. Although – if you did want a little part of your birthday today, there might just be something tucked away in my room, top of my cupboard, large cardboard box with 'Don't open Alan' on it."

"If you forgot the comma again, Virgil will have a field day with that." Alan beamed at him, briefly, then grew serious. "Nah. Thanks. But I'll wait till we can all see it when I open it."  
Wow, thought Scott. He really is growing up.

Then again, a father and two brothers missing at sea would make anyone grow up in a hurry. And there was a third alternative fate for Thunderbird Two scuttling in the basement of his mind that he refused to acknowledge but that echoed in that all-too adult tone of his little brother's voice.

"I hear you're doing a great job looking after Brains."

A shrug, where once his little brother would have clamoured for the approval. "He's not so good. It's a shitty bug. Man, I never knew stuff could look that colour. Ugh. But me and Grandma are doing what we can."

"I know it." Scott glanced at the clock on the wall. "Okay, kiddo. Gotta go, check in with John, get these GDF people moving. Thanks for holding the fort for us."

"Talk to you later," said Alan, meaningfully, and Scott nodded, a promise. The connection closed out, and Scott let out a sigh.

"He's doing fine," said Kayo. "Wish you were that together at 17."

"Ha." Scott tapped his comm unit. "John, you awake?"

There was a slight pause, which Scott hoped signified the metaphorical rattling of morning curtains.

"Scott. Kayo. Glad you're up."

John swung into view. If anything, he looked worse than the day before, a man gallowed in heaven and kicking at air that held nothing.

"Hey, brother mine." Scott tilted his head. "You get any sleep?"

"Some. Enough. Been working on this EMF trace. Scott, it's like nothing we've seen before. A genius must have written this."

"A genius? We're talking Luddites here. People that want us to go back to the Stone Age."

"Not to the Stone Age, no." John dropped his head, as if acknowledging an unwelcome truth. "They want to take us back to some pastoral paradise that never existed. When people died from scalds and scratches and childbirth. They're everything that science despises, and somehow they're using science against us."

The vehemence in John's voice startled Scott.

"This isn't personal, John. This is – "

"Of course it's personal! And I don't just mean because Virgil and Gordon are in the firing line." John drew a deep breath, clearly combating his lesser angels. "This is just against everything I've devoted my life to – the idea that searching for knowledge and sharing it, the idea that good answers and better questions can take us somewhere beyond our own limitations… Scott, this is deliberately denying us our own intellectual curiosity." He stopped, and looked up at his brother. "I think I'd die in a world like that."

"They're not going to win, John." The depth of John's feeling may have surprised Scott, but he understood exactly where his brother was coming from. "Hey. You know this. There are always people that want to go back to some time that only exists in their head. There are always people that want to make others dance to some kind of outdated and awful tune. And they win for a bit, but never for long. You know this."

John sighed, and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Yeah. I guess."

"Damn right. Now go get some breakfast. And then some rest. God, John, get some sleep."

"Later." John managed to look both utterly tired and dopily defiant. "When we get them back."

"Suit yourself. But we've got another – " Scott looked at the clock by his bed – "another six hours. Just sayin'."

"Alright. I'll talk to you later."

"Huh." Scott looked through the space where John had been. "Guess he's not as scared of you as you thought."

"I must be losing my touch."

"Well, that was way more intense than anything I intended before breakfast." Scott swung his legs out of bed and stood up. "How about we go and see what these GDF guys can do that Grandma can't."

"You're spoiling me for choice with lines there, Scott."

"Ah. It's what I do."

They ate breakfast in the officer's mess, the last ones in at 0800 hours. Others were just finishing coffee or tea, the atmosphere in the room low-key but quietly optimistic.

One officer, a captain, stopped by as he left.

"We'll get these bastards, sir. Ma'am."

"Thanks." Scott shook his hand, and the captain nodded his farewell. Several others looked on in approval as they followed behind him.

"Looks like the GDF are definitely in it for the win," said Kayo. Scott gave a brief, tight smile to the remaining audience, then brought his gaze back to his eggs and avocado.

"Yeah. Still wish that – "

A brief flurry by the door, and suddenly a short, broad man was by their table, another hand outstretched in friendship.

"International Rescue, right? Flying Officer Drago Kasun. Pleasure to meet you."

The name might be Serbian, but the accent was pure Australian, and distractingly breezy.

"Nice to meet you," Scott replied, guardedly. Kayo reached over to shake hands as well.

"Couldn't believe it when they said there were two people from International Rescue in the mess. Makes sense, I mean, I know you've got people out there."

"Yes." Scott's teeth were gritted.

"So I thought I'd drop by, see if there's anything you want to ask me or tell me. You know. What I'll be looking out for."

Kayo caught on. "You're the pilot."

"Too right. Couldn't put my hand up quick enough, to be honest." The pilot drew back a little, regarding Scott with frank appraisal. "I'm guessing I stole your spot?"

"Yes."

The coffee was pretty good. Scott focused on that.

"Hey. No worries. I get it. I'd be pissed off if I couldn't go. Just thought I'd track you down, give you the latest. Take –offs been put back until 1500 hours, something about the AFC connectors."

"Thanks." Monosyllables were working well for Scott. But Kasun didn't seem to mind.

"Frustrating, specially with the weather coming over the way it does. But bugger-all I can do about it when the colonel's got the say."

Scott remained mutinously silent. Kayo took up the conversational slack. "You look awfully young to be a flying officer."

To be honest, he reminded Scott a good deal of Virgil in his dark good looks – with some of Gordon's energy. Not hard to take an instant set against someone who reminded you painfully of what you had temporarily lost.

"Clean living. And you'd be surprised." Drago motioned to a chair by their table. "Mind if I - ?"

"Be our guest," Kayo said. Scott tried not to scowl.

"So. International Rescue. You blokes do an amazing job."

"Thanks."

"And look, sorry about taking the ride, but I really had to. Just lucky the colonel owes me a favour or two."

Kayo frowned. "You realise it's a rather risky operation?"

"Dodgy as." He met her look with one of his own. "Not really a consideration though, is it?"

"No." Scott felt Kayo give him the evil eye, so made an effort. "You're familiar with these waters, I guess?"

Drago Kasun gave a grin made of pure fly-boy sunshine, and Scott couldn't help but warm to him slightly.

"She'll be right. Sky, sea, storm coming in from Greenland and me in a TI 70. You know what we call them?"

Scott wondered if he knew that he was talking to the son of the man who built them. He shook his head.

"Jimis. 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky'."

Jeff Tracy loved old school Jimi Hendrix. Scott's throat grew tight. He coughed to clear it.

"Really?"

"Yep. Me in a Jimi, and a chance to find our people, stop some real bad arseholes and kick seven colours of shit out of an Arctic storm? That's my kind of arvo."

Scott realised he was grinning back in pure recognition, and he saw Drago notice.

"Ah. So you've been there."

"Once or twice."

"Bet you have. Kind of stuff you do – " Drago shook his head in honest admiration. "Buggered if I know how you do it."

"Good people."

Drago nodded.

"Too right. Good people here, too. I mean, there are some clowns in here, same as anywhere. Wouldn't know a tram was up 'em till the bell rang. But the guys who went down – three of 'em were in the Bereznik Campaign with me. Never saw better aircrew. I'd go an extra yard or two for them."

"Bereznik?" Scott knew his face was blank, all friendliness gone. Too many people claiming Bereznik, when most of them saw out the campaign behind computer banks. But Drago's grin grew conspiratorial.

"Well, sorta. Won't appear on my records, not that kind of 'confidential contribution'." Scott could hear the air quotes. "Me and my mates ran a little thing out of Karazhal. The Soyuz Spooks they called us. Running civilians under the line in these ugly old Soviet Duchovny 52s."

"The Karazhal Krazies!" Scott startled. "That was you?"

"Me and some others." Drago looked surprised in turn. "You heard about us?"

"You might say. You remember picking up a young pilot out of Kyzyl area? Bad burns to her hands?"

"Shit, yeah. She a friend?"

Scott reached his hand over again, and Drago took it, obviously a little nonplussed. "I've wanted to do that for five years. She was my winger through most of my tour. She said she was a goner if you hadn't done what you did."

"Fair suck. Well." The flying officer looked more than a little embarrassed. "Hope she's okay?"

"Good as new. And now it looks like I'll owe you another favour. You have no idea how much our missing pilots mean to us."

"Nah, bullshit. Doesn't work that way." Drago stood up. "You be in the ops room while I'm up?"

Kayo and Scott stood, too.

"You bet we will."

Drago nodded. "Hope you'll hear some good news, then. I'll do my best."

"I feel better knowing there's a Krazy out there in a Jimi."

He laughed, and shook Kayo's hand in farewell. "Righto. Gotta see a man about a dog. You can buy me a beer tonight."

"Many as you like."

Scott and Kayo watched him leave, then she sighed.

"Either we just got played, or he's a sweetheart."

Scott shook his head, but not in denial.

"Karazhal Krazies. They were legends. I wasn't kidding, Kayo, we couldn't have a better pilot looking for our boys."

"That's good to hear. Well, we now have – " Kayo looked at her watch – "four and a half hours until John can hope to spot the escape pod and six and a half until Drago sets off. What are we going to do to fill our time?"

Scott worked his shoulders.

"I don't know about you, but I need some time in the gym. Those beds are tiny. And after that, a catch up with Lady Penelope and Parker. Do you know where they're staying?"

"Outside of town. Lady Penelope didn't think GDF Base Lossiemouth was quite up to her accommodation standards." She glanced at the ongoing gloomy weather outside through the large windows of the mess. "And I will see you in the gym, Scott Tracy. Never a bad time to show you a thing or two on the overhead press."

*** **** ***** *****  
Thirteen hundred hours came and went.

Scott didn't call Five. There was no point adding to the pressure his brother was already undoubtedly feeling. None of it was down to John, and all of it was almost certainly making a mockery of the notion of weightlessness.

But he felt his pulse pounding in the back of his throat as the minutes ticked around, and he made his way to the back of the operations room so that he could work his fists into knots quietly without grabbing attention.

Every minute that passed without hearing from John was a winding of a screw in his neck, his belly, his head. By the time 1440 hours appeared on the display, the fists were bumping rhythmically against his thighs.

"Wish I was going up. Wish I was doing something," he muttered to Kayo, who stood beside him looking as cool and collected as she usually did.

"The numbers were never exact, Scott. Try to relax."

Over the speakers into the busting operations room came the controller's voice, checking off pre-flight, and Drago's voice, serious and steady in answer. Scott listened intently, his mind going over a dozen possibilities.

"We heard anything from Moffy yet?"

"Nothing so far. It's rather soon."

"This storm that's coming in. Will that affect the trajectory of the pod?"

"John will compensate. Micro-managing him now won't help, Scott."

"I know. Playing to my strengths." His smile was a rueful one, and more of a grimace, but the best he could do in the circumstances.

More orderly hustle in the operations room, while above it all the sit-rep map showed the agitation caused by vicious winds from the north. Scott spread his fingers apart, easing the ache brought on by too much clenching.

"Launch in five," said the controller.

~Launch prep confirmed.~

Metallic distortion suited Drago's voice, made him sound older, more authoritative.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" said Kayo, suddenly. Scott looked down at her and saw something in her eyes she usually kept hidden so well.

It was these moments that broke Scott's heart; when his brave, ingenious, daring girl revealed the fear that lived at the bottom of her heart. He knew her uncle put it there, and scorched her father's name across the scar.

Time for a Scott Tracy Special. He remembered airspace crowded with air to grounds, nuclear drones, a fucked radar and his own voice telling his flight to try to get over their boredom; we going home today, folks?

He knew some of his pilots swore it was his dry ice voice that kept their heads in the game when panic held their coattails. So he called that up now.

"Kayo, this guy was a Soyuz Spook. Know why they called them that?"

She shook her head, her eyes caught by his, asking for something from him. He ached for her.

"Kazhal was where Soyuz 3 came down. First guys to die in space? Kazhal was the nearest town. Any flier worth their salt figures that the cosmonauts haunt that airspace."

"Hence Soyuz Spooks. Cute." She was rallying.

The controller spoke again. "Flight 86 clear to launch."

"Beer's on the bar, Drago," Scott murmured.

A blast of static, then Jimi Hendrix's 'All along the Watchtower' roared through the speakers.

"And he's away," said a tech near the two International Rescue operatives.

"He always do that?"

"Always," the tech muttered gloomily. "Does my bleedin' head in."

The Hendrix faded and Drago's voice came through clearly.

~Heading west nor-west.~

"Why west –oh." Kayo nodded to herself. "They'll be expecting planes from the south or east."

"He'll try and come at them from the side," agreed Scott. "It'll only take him a few minutes to get on site. If he can just get the sub in his scanner…"

~Approaching designated area now. Base, I am picking up something on depth scans. Confirm please.~

On the sit-rep map the small glowing dot that was the TI 70 converged with the orange marker.

"It's Two," Kayo said, her voice tight. "She's floating."

"No." Scott could barely get the words out. "He said depth scan."

"What? You mean –"

~Unidentified vessel approximately 26 kilometres due west.~

"Receiving, Flight 86. We have your visual."

~I think it cou -~

Static.

Then nothing.

The glowing dot disappeared from the map as if it had never been.

The after image stayed burned in Scott's eye, the manifestation of his instant denial.

"Flight 86, come in."

"Scott?"

He couldn't. Not yet.

Kayo's hand on his wrist, clutching.

"Scott?"

Young. She sounded so young.

"Flight 86, do you read?"

She needed him.

"Come on." His hand closed around hers. "We'll go and talk to John. He might have something from Five."

He took her through the operations room, past stunned GDF personnel, all staring at the sit-rep map as if their collective will could change what they knew to be true. The controller continued to send her plaintive requests for acknowledgement out into the ether.

Nobody noticed their leaving.


	6. Chapter 6

When 2200 hours came and went, two hours later than EOS' latest estimate for the appearance of the escape pod, John had to find Scott.

The crowded emptiness of space, the vastness that usually brought him serenity, offered nothing but loneliness tonight. He felt it so rarely it left him in a kind of bewildered pain.

There was no comfort in knowledge; Five's computers, more precise than those of a plane, worked the image found by Drago Kasun until John was certain that the object on the seabed was Thunderbird Two. Once that dreadful truth was clear, only two hopes remained. Now that the likelihood of the pod appearing was reduced to almost nothing, only one, Thunderbird Four, was left.

He found them in a quiet corner of the officer's mess, sitting in heavily upholstered leather wingbacks. Scott's faced outwards, through the windows overlooking the sea. The curtains had been opened slightly. It was impossible to see out, as the lighting, though soft, meant that the darkness beyond was denied in the reflection. But Scott positioned himself there anyway, an unconscious attempt to keep watch that was doomed to failure but as instinctive for him as breathing. John knew, even before he looked, that his brother would have a whisky in front of him, and that it would stay untouched all night. Scott would be ready to fly at a moments' notice, and that precluded alcohol. The whisky was a prop, a kind of homage to their father that Scott only called upon when he needed to feel as if the man who almost always had answers was near.

"Five here. Any word?"

Tired eyes rose to meet him. No one spoke for several seconds until Lady Penelope broke the silence. Social rescues were something of a specialty for her.

"I'm sure he got out in time. But no, no call yet. You haven't sighted the..?"

"No. Nothing to report." The words hung in the air beside him.

Kayo sat forward in her chair, knees on elbows, head down. Parker had his chin in hand, elbow on the chair's arm. Penelope was upright, as she would be until the moment her indomitable will was finally taken from her with her last breath. Scott –

One look at Scott's face and instantly, John was thrown back to a bleak winter's day, too many strangers speaking in low tones, the smell of wet wool and crushed pine and his father standing like a stone cracked through by lightning.

He tried to find something to ease his brother's pain, but when he reached inside all he found to call on was the emptiness of space, that void that swallowed even the echoes of humanity.

"The colonel said no more planes. But there is still 'ope. That Professor Moffat? She might come up with the goods." Parker, doing his best to shore up the sad little group.

"Quite right, Parker. There is still hope."

John didn't think he'd ever heard Penelope sound so old.

"Scott?"

His brother brought his eyes away from the window at last.

"Hey, Johnny."

"I've asked EOS to scan the seabed outside the affected area. Thunderbird Four may have been able to launch."

"With what?" He wasn't arguing, John knew, so much as worrying at the problem to find something he could hold onto, like a drowning man rifling through wreckage for something to float. "This thing, this weapon they've got, the GDF are talking directed anti-energy. It drains power. How could they get the module out? And what kind of power would Four have?"

"Four's got batteries that would not have been online. Maybe –"

'I'm sorry to interrupt, John, but Thunderbird Four was running diagnostics when Thunderbird Two disappeared.'

EOS was trying. Her voice was modulated to a synthetic regret. But her certainty hurt.

There were rare times when John wished he could physically reach through the comm and help his brothers in a tangible way. When Virgil looked heartsick, or Gordon's brightness dimmed. When Scott looked as though the world he carried on his shoulders had started to break apart and he couldn't find the strength to hold it together just one more time.

But tonight the thousands of kilometres between them were so real the fantasy could not gain traction. John was alone, and so were they, each one prey to the beginnings of an awful acceptance.

He had nothing of worth to give, his reassurance as insubstantial as his avatar, but he had to offer something before acceptance became fact.

"Don't underestimate them. Virgil and Gordon are smart, and they're tough. If anyone could figure out a way to make it through this, it's those two."

A long pause.

"Yeah." Scott Tracy, doing his best. And that hurt, too, to see how hard he had to fight for even this last level of resilience. "You're right. Good thinking about the scans."

No one else had anything. They were a tableau. Fear and Failure.

"I'll let you know if I get any hits."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Keep me informed."

"Will do." Scott blinked hard, tiredness in every lift of his eyelids. "And get some sleep. John, you – just get your head down."

"You, too. I'll see you in the morning."

No one acknowledged that, and John couldn't blame them. He disconnected, and stayed where he was for several minutes. He didn't know if he lacked energy to move or simply the will to do anything but stay there, inanimate, as disembodied as his avatar.

'You really should get some rest, John. Your bio scan shows an alarming level of exhaustion. You can't possibly function at your best.'

"I know." One of the best things about being in space was the ease of movement. Now it felt like he was crawling through molasses as he turned and headed slowly for his sleeping quarters. "Keep scanning, EOS. They're out there. We've just got to find them."

Strong words to comfort someone who didn't need it, from someone who couldn't believe it. The only thing he could honestly hope to find in the next few hours was refuge in sleep, and that was no kind of trade he could welcome.

When he was six and three quarters years old, John Tracy saw a ghost.

Scott, in fourth grade and therefore possessed of so much esoteric knowledge that it sometimes dismayed John, claimed there could sometimes be ghosts if the person had 'died in torment'. Four year old Virgil promptly declared that he was never visiting Torment, then. Their father could have settled the matter definitively, but he was, as ever, busy and mysterious and an intermittent presence with much on his mind. Scott told his brothers not to bother him with queries about spooks – "He'll just get mad."

Which meant John was still debating the probability of metaphysical manifestations when he got out of bed that cold early morning and made his way downstairs. It was a brave undertaking, and one he'd only attempted once before, getting as far as the top of the stairs before gasping at the swelling darkness below and running back to hide in his bed in the room he shared with Scott. But on this night his head hurt, and his shoulders ached funny, and he needed to get to the bathroom. Sunrise was too far away.

So he crept past the room that held Mom, Dad, and little Gordon, one year old and still getting over a nasty tummy bug, as Grandma described it. He had his tiny flashlight, a present from Santa in his stocking last year, and it shone a dim red beam onto the floor, the walls, in a way that wasn't as comforting as it was probably meant to be. Every sweep of the light brought the possibility of a jump-cut horror, every glance upward threatened to disclose a Monster. John clutched his dressing gown firmly about his belly and kept going, head down, breath coming in harsh little pants that hung as cloud in the air in front of him and caught the red of his flashlight when he paused in one spot too long, spectral trails of his own making.

At last he reached the top of the stairs, the scariest place. Below him, the darkness spooled and writhed. He took a big breath, then another, and began the careful journey down to the bathroom near Grandma and Grandpa's bedroom.

The farmhouse was over two hundred years old. Two hundred and twenty three, as a matter of fact, John looked it up. He liked to be accurate about things. Two hundred and twenty three years old, and if that didn't qualify as being a possible source of torment and breeding ground of ghosts, well, there was the story of James Reid, the original owner. John's friend Leander Crosthwaite told him that old James went off his rocker one day and hacked everyone in his family to death with a Sioux warrior's tomahawk he inherited from his grandfather. Leander said they were all downstairs in the cellar, bottling apricots when it happened. It was the inclusion of the odd details – the inherited tomahawk, the apricot bottling – that convinced the Tracy boys of its truth.

Now, as he tiptoed down the stairs, one step at a time, carefully avoiding the twelfth and fifteenth steps (because everyone knew they were the creakers), it was the fearful figure of James that he dreaded seeing in the beam of his flashlight, contorted in hellish rage, tomahawk raised to finish the job.

And the thought of the figure seemed real to him because, more than any of his brothers and possibly even more than his father, John had an imagination so fierce and vivid that what was real and what was only possibility was never quite clear to him. As an adult it would make him a brilliant scientist capable of immense leaps of insight. As a six and three quarter year old boy, it made him terrified of the dark and convinced he was sharing his home with any number of creatures only he could see.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped there, breath loud and shaky, head pounding along with his frightened heart.

And almost as if it were an inevitability, he raised his eyes and saw directly in front of him, red within the light, white within the darkness, a woman.

Wild-eyed, her mouth open in a silent shriek.

Looking at him.

John lost all ability to speak. His mouth opened and closed. His grandparents' door was no more than six feet away, but he couldn't move. A flood of warmth in his pants, unnoticed.

No power in his legs, so he promptly collapsed onto the first step of the staircase. She stood in front of him, staring, growing larger, and he whimpered, a sound of abject terror.

Too much. It was too much. Everything got impossibly dark for a time, and then he was staring around at nothing, his flashlight where he dropped it, its beam uselessly offering a bright red circle on the wall three inches away.

All he needed to do was shout and alert his grandparents, his mom, his dad, that he was out of bed and in danger, but he couldn't bring himself to make a sound. She was there, in the darkness. She was waiting for him to move, to make a noise. With a six year old's logic, he knew he could only be attacked if he gave her permission by doing either, so he stayed, rigid, wet with sweat and urine, increasingly cold, increasingly hurting in his head and back and stomach, his eyes wide and staring into the dark around him.

They found him in the morning with a temperature of 104 degrees, his body shaking in his wet clothing, incapable of speech. There was a tepid bath, fresh clothes, and a strange trip to the hospital, when everything outside the car seemed to float in slow motion and nothing anyone said to him made any kind of sense. Then a different bed, and nurses, and Mom looking upset, and cool cloths that were heavenly to a little boy with pneumonia.

And John hadn't thought of any of that for a long, long time.

But it came back to him, suddenly, as if it happened yesterday, because he'd been at the heart of the search coordination for more than fifty hours now, and Scott had sent him off to bed, and now here he was, lights dimmed, eyes drooping, and Virgil was standing at the foot of his bed.

He knew it couldn't be Virgil. Not really. But his brother was looking at him with all the sadness of the universe in his eyes, and so he spoke, even as he told himself no one was there.

"Virgil?"

"I hurt my head."

And now John could see it, a great gash that seemed to have sprung up without cause on the side of Virgil's temple.

"So I see. Are you – are you okay?" And then, absurdly, "Virgil, where are you?"

Virgil stared about him, silently, for a long time. Then he gave a great sigh.

"I'm lost."

John swallowed against the lump that grew in his throat.

"I know. I know, Virgil. We're looking, bro. We're going to find you."

Virgil shook his head, and it was awful, it was horrible to see that despair, that hopelessness. And John, suddenly, didn't want to hear what this Virgil had to say. Nothing good ever came from someone with eyes like that.

"We're lost. We're so lost."

"I know."

"Down in the sea. So far down in the sea. You'll never find us down here."

Tears filled John's eyes, tired and young and helpless.

"We will. We're gonna find you, Virgil, you and Gordo. We'll never give up. You know that."

"So lost."

John blinked away the tears, and Virgil was gone.

Nausea gripped him so suddenly he had to clap his hand over his mouth as he sprang up from bed, staggered to the tiny bathroom cubicle by his bedroom and began to vomit, again and again, into the basin.

When he finished he sank down beside it. And began to cry.

He believed it now. His brothers were gone. Smashed as Two plummeted into the sea, wrenched about into the depths as she broke up, their bodies plucked out and dragged down by implacable sea currents.

He sobbed, helplessly, without restraint, without dignity or thought beyond grief so savage it ripped him in two.

There was no meaning in this death, no succour to be found. They were killed by an attack that took down anything in its path. They didn't die as International Rescue, they died as targets, not in rescue but just in transit.

It hurt so badly that John sobbed until he couldn't any more, his throat raw, his lungs exhausted, his face covered in snot and tears and red blotches. And just as he had done as a six and three quarter year old, he stayed there, where he dropped, only this time he was held rigid by grief and exhaustion, not terror.

There was nothing left to fear, now that the worst he could imagine had come to pass.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7** **: Silver on the horizon**

 **Notes:**

My thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta, Soleil_Lumiere. And to the other lovely person who helped with figuring out what Parker would call Scott (you know who you are).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

Silver on the horizon  
Oh-six fifteen in the morning saw Scott running along a winding road between bland holiday cottages that made the Silver Sands Holiday Park, heading for the beach and eventually the abandoned lighthouse.

The sunrise was still twenty-five minutes away. A pale silver light filtered between the sea and the clouds, still holding the blackness of the night. It was cold, and wet underfoot from the previous day's rain. Every now and then the wind sent a spray of spume across more than half a kilometre of beach and cottage into Scott's face.

He was wearing civvies, tracksuit pants and a hoodie. The sight of an International Rescue blue running down the road in the first hours of the day was likely to occasion alarm in anyone who happened to see him. As it was he had only seen a couple of cars, and no pedestrians at all.

His breath huffed into the chill as his legs rhythmically pounded along the wet concrete. A hypnotic one-two, one-two, that helped dispel the memories of the call he'd made at midnight to the grandmother watching and waiting on Tracy Island.

Now, he was numb. The cold, the lingering darkness. The anonymity. They all helped.

Then, he had watched as his grandmother's chin had trembled, even as she lifted it, facing into the wind of this latest tragedy in her life. Then, the hurt was knifelike, and lingered.

"There's still a chance, Grandma. If they got Four out, they might be somewhere in the north Atlantic, maybe trying to head against the current down south. Or maybe waiting it out somewhere up north." Though if that were true, why hadn't they contacted anyone by now? The counter-argument thrummed under his skin even as he tried to give his grandma a kindness that could only prolong the cruelty.

"Of course." Grandma's voice was unsteady, but she never dropped her gaze. "You know my grandsons are smart. They'll figure it out."

He'd agreed, and summoned up more ideas, each one increasingly unlikely. And Grandma had nodded, grateful, even as her eyes gradually filled with tears, even as Scott's started to sting, too.

"I'll stay here until I find them. I'll bring them home, Grandma." He'd said that, hadn't he. And they both knew he might be meeting that promise in ways that that could only be tragic.

One-two. One-two.

The light on the horizon was brightening, but the headlights of cars still glared. As Scott passed under one streetlamp, something was lit up in the middle of the road beneath the next.

His stride shortened, then dropped to a jog.

It was a child.

The unexpectedness of it brought him up short.

A child. Boy or girl he couldn't tell. Pretty, but then little kids often were, regardless of sex. Instantly he thought of Gordon at about two years of age, remembered loftily calling his little, big-eyed, blond-curled brother 'pretty' and his mother saying no, he was 'elfin'. As if that was better.

The splinter of grief made him gasp out loud. Numb. He needed numb.

The child looked up at him, woeful in thin pyjamas.

"What are you doing out here, hey?" Scott crouched down, suddenly aware of his height in the semi-darkness. The child tucked her chin back – a girl, he thought it was a girl – in an obvious shrinking from this stranger with the weird voice.

"So where do you belong? Not really a great idea to be out here, sweetheart." He reached for her, still hunkered down, and waited. She whimpered, and hid her head, the blonde curls dropping over her face.

He waited. He knew this game, knew it from years of being a big brother, years more of rescuing children who didn't understand why their world was suddenly full of fear and loudness and shouts. It took longer than he expected, despite his best softness of tone, despite his gentle smile. At last she raised her head slightly, and he took that for the signal to carefully stretch forward and tuck her against his chest, quietly talking all the while.

"Okay. Can you tell me where you live, honey? No? Okay, so maybe we'll just have a wander for a while, take a stroll. See what we can find." As he murmured he scanned the nearby cottages, looking for lights, an open window, a gaping door. If it came to it he'd contact the police and they could take care of her, but it would be much better if he could return her to her folks as soon as possible. Nothing seemed obvious as her point of departure. Perplexed, he began to slowly walk down the road, towards the beach.

Further to the left, set back from the road he was on, a cottage dumped on a slight rise showed lights in the front window. It would at least be someone to ask.

The child had her arms tight against her body, still refusing to hold onto him. It made it awkward to hold her, but she was shivering so badly he didn't dare put her down. Maybe these people on the hill would have something they could wrap her in?

As he approached, he heard a loud thump and a yell from inside the cottage. The child shrank even further in his arms.

A different kind of coldness crept up his spine.

"Shh, shh, sweetheart. Let's go see if we can find someone who knows who you belong to, hmm?"

He shifted her onto his hip. The door had amber glass in two of its panels; next to it, a window with net curtains limply hanging over the sill showed a possible way Scott's waif had found herself outside. Another crash, an angry voice raised again, and Scott found his numbness vibrating through his bones as he lifted his hand to knock.

"Fuck off, you nosey bitch!" The sound of steps and the door was flung open.

Inside, not what Scott expected; a tall, good-looking young man dressed for an office somewhere, neat and smart. He was shaking and flexing his hand as if it was hurting. He looked belligerently at the figure on the doorstep, silhouetted with the growing light from the east, and the child gave a little gasp.

"Yeah? What?"

Scott found his own voice was calm.

"Do you happen to know where this one belongs?"

"Maudie? What are you doing out there?" The young man turned, speaking to someone behind him. "Hey, Charlotte. Your kid's outside. What the hell's she doing out there? No, I'll take her," he said, suddenly moving to block Scott's view into the room.

It was too late. Scott saw a suitcase on the floor by the door, and the leg of someone obviously sitting or lying on the ground. In one smooth move he used his body to wedge the door open, one arm still tight around the child who had begun to clutch around his neck at the sight of the man moving towards her.

"I think I better get her inside. I'm a trained emergency worker."

"I can take her!"

"That's okay, sir. Really, no trouble at all."

Another smooth hip check, and Scott was into the room.

On the floor a young woman half lay, half sat, one side of her face dark red, the skin split across the brow. Scott shoved past the man, ignoring his, "Hey, pal, what do you think you're doing?" to hunker down beside her.

"Are you alright?"

Like her daughter, the woman hid her face.

"I'm fine. I just tripped."

"Hey, pal. I'm talking to you." Scott felt a hand, rough on his shoulder, pulling him back. "Leave my wife alone."

Gently, he leant forward to brush her hair back from her eyes.

"Are you sure? Is this your little girl?"

She didn't make a move to take the child, despite Maudie's wriggle towards her, and then Scott saw it – the way her eyes flickered from the suitcase to the door, a bleakness in them that shouted, then came back to him.

Take her. Get her out of here.

Okay.

Scott stood, and disengaged Maudie, all too happy to go back to her mother.

"There you go," he said. The woman's hands clutched around her girl. She looked up at Scott.

And then there was a wall, and a man against it, and a hand at the man's throat, a fist drawn back, and a howling black rage roaring through Scott's body, filling the hollow, screaming for release.

"Oh, god. Oh, god." The man's face was turned away, his eyes squeezed shut.

A sudden, sharp scent of urine.

And Virgil nowhere to hold him back.

Only – he was.

As if he stood behind Scott, one arm across his shoulder, that low, calm voice saying, Easy, Scott.

"Don't hurt him! Jesus, don't hurt him!"

The urge to punch the man before him was almost overwhelming. He could see his fist go through the man's head, into the ply board wall, on and out into the morning. Letting light through the hole, letting the fury out of his own body.

Instead, he breathed heavily, in and out, feeling his brother's arm, hearing his brother's voice.

He relaxed his fist and reached in his pocket for his phone. The man flinched at the movement. His face was white, streaked with tears. Scott brought his camera up and took a photo.

"This," he ground out, voice like bedrock, "will be going up in the officer's mess and the enlisted canteen on the GDF base. Underneath it, I am going to mention what kind of man you are. And I am going to ask if anyone ever hears of you raising a hand to a woman or child ever again – they are to contact me. It won't matter where I am, I will come back, and I will find you, and I will finish this. Do you understand me?"

The man shivered as his child had done only minutes before, in fear and distress.

Scott shook him hard against the wall.

"I need to hear you say it."

"Ye-es. Oh god. Don't hurt me."

Scott stepped away as if the man in front of him was poison. One last look of utter contempt, then he turned to the woman.

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

She nodded, scrambling to her feet, awkward with her daughter on one hip, swaying with the after-effects of the blow to her face. Upright, marks on her arms could be seen, old and new bruises mottling her skin. Scott moved towards her, to help, and she shrank back.

Afraid of me, he thought. She's afraid of me.

And the urge to violence, and the black rage that birthed it, drained away, leaving shame and sorrow and a swelling nausea.

"I'll be alright, mister," she said, easing past him to grab the suitcase. She spared one quick look at the man on the floor against the wall, sitting where he slumped after Scott released him, weeping silently in spent fear. With her daughter and the suitcase she hurried from the little cottage into the morning now fully committed to a gray daylight.

Unlike her, Scott couldn't bear to look at the young man he had so completely humiliated. He followed her out the door and stood by the doorstep, watching as she struggled down the road, half-running, the little arms around her neck clinging tightly. He kept watch until she reached the main road and a waiting car. An older woman got out, exclaimed something before hugging her and the little one, then bundled both into the car and drove off.

Behind him, the man was sobbing.

Scott closed the door and jogged back down the hill toward the beach. The waves were surging up along the shoreline, leaving traces of wrack and other weed lying on the dark wet sand. It was firm and springy beneath his feet, and he picked up his pace, running hard with the wind behind him, faster and faster until he was digging up spurts of sand and the ache in his thighs could pierce the ache in his chest.

He didn't throw up until he reached the turn off for the lighthouse, and he could rest one hand on the stone wall bordering the beach and support himself until there was nothing left in his stomach.

**** ***** ***** ***  
He stayed in the shower for almost twenty minutes, the longest shower he'd had in years. He told himself he was cold. That he was trying to scrub something else from his skin was a truth he decided he could ignore today.

By the time he reached the operations room, Kayo was already there, standing beneath the blue sit-rep wall that had come to assume a kind of oppressiveness in Scott's mind. It loomed above them all as an implacable record of an ever-changing sea amidst an ever-stagnant situation, the orange marker drawing his eye to it as relentlessly as to a gaping wound. Colonel Casey's face looked grim in its cold light.

"Good morning, Scott. Have you heard the latest?"

"No?" He looked at once to Kayo, and found her face closed. She only ever looked like that when she was struggling with something beyond her ability to wrangle. He felt the quick spike of alarm.

"Good news." Colonel Casey's voice held that tone of professional pleasure reserved for making the political best of the ambiguous. "Three escape pods have been found off the north coast of France."

For the worst of seconds his heart was ahead of his brain. Kayo's frozen look was his warning.

"From - ?"

"The GDF flight and the two rescue missions. Fifteen personnel in total. It's an excellent outcome."

Of course. The GDF flights went down in the North Sea. The currents brought them south.

Scott swallowed.

"That's – that's great news."

"Yes." But her eyes told him the rest; that alongside her joy and relief for the people found was sorrow for the two of her lost pilots who weren't coming home. That she knew having nothing to say of Thunderbird Four meant that International Rescue was one day further into the impossibility of survival. That for all an effort of resistance was needed for the World Council, if she'd waited a day Drago Kasun's flight may have been reconsidered, and another pilot would be safe. "I've just informed General Afemui."

"What's the word from the World Council?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Kayo's arms were crossed over her stomach, protective. "They've received a demand."

"An ultimatum. From the group responsible. No longer calling themselves the Luddites. They're now the Rogalian Regency, it seems. We have been informed that all energy generating plants should be shut down in the next week, or else flights across the Atlantic will be targeted next."

"And after that, cities. They claim they can target twenty cities at a time."

Kayo didn't need to elaborate; her expression told Scott what she thought of the claim, both in its intent and its achievability.

"Rogalian?" Scott asked the room in general.

"An old word – naturally," said Colonel Casey, dry as dust. "Rogalian is a seventeenth century word for a great and ruinous fire, apparently."

"Not at all pretentious, then," murmured Kayo.

"Great. So. The council response?"

"We're working on it. They're working on it." Colonel Casey turned to face the blue wall and its insistent blue whorls. "If we don't come up with some way to challenge them, I don't know what we can do but capitulate, at least for now."

Scott almost growled.

"That's unacceptable."

"Give me an alternative." Her eyes were grave, and tired, but her head remained high. "If International Rescue knows something – if you have anything I can take to General Afemui?"

And he didn't, of course he didn't, nothing but his heartbreak and his stubbornness.

He gestured with his head to Kayo.

"Come on. We'll go find a something."

"Gladly."

They left the operations room, but instead of going back to their quarters, Scott led her to where the car assigned to them by the GDF was parked.

"Let's visit Penelope, see if she and Parker have any ideas."

"You mean something besides giving these madmen exactly what they want?"

"That's the one."

They drove south down the A941, in silence, until Scott suddenly pulled the car off the road and onto the verge. Kayo shot him a questioning look, but he sat silently, his hands folded on the wheel.

The numbness was gone. So was the black rage. Both had been scoured from him by his own actions in the cottage, and now he sat, suspended between emotional states in the kind of limbo he loathed.

Twice he opened his mouth to say something, and each time the words died in his mouth.

Kayo exceeded her day's patience quota twice over before she ventured to speak.

"Scott. Spit it out. Whatever it is."

He gave a sigh and bent his head forward over the wheel.

"It's nothing."

"Fine." She paused, but he heard that short intake of breath, knew what it meant. Come on, Scott. I need you to be strong now. "Can we keep going then?"

He stayed, head down, for another few seconds, then straightened up.

"Yeah. Sorry Kayo."

He didn't dare look at her. He knew he'd see pity, and he didn't want that.

Because despite everything, despite the bad news of yesterday and the good news of today that nonetheless brought with it the most shameful of stings – despite the World Council panic, and the GDF indecisiveness, despite not knowing what they were fighting and having nothing to fight it with anyway – despite all this, somewhere in the pit of his belly, a small flame had begun to burn.

He knew it for what it was, and he cursed himself. It was foolish, and against all sense, and he couldn't speak of it without watching it die almost at once. But somewhere inside him, Scott Tracy still hoped.

They were both silent in the car until they reached Elgin, and Lady Penelope's choice of hotels, Mansion House.

"Mansion House. Of course it is," said Kayo. They found a stately looking building set back on leafy grounds, sufficiently gabled and lawned to suggest a kind of faux aristocracy. Scott suspected Lady Penelope chose it ironically. He drove the car to the front door with the confidence that comes from a billion dollar bank balance and not a single care for snobbery that claimed propriety as its shield.

Parker stood at the door itself, beckoning them in.

"'Er Ladyship has him on the comms. I think 'e may 'ave something after all."

"He?" Scott mouthed to Kayo. From inside the front lounge room with its large windows and views of the garden, Scott heard his youngest brother's voice. "Alan?"

"No, sir. Mister Brains."

"Brains! What in – " Scott barged into the room, to see Brains' avatar suspended in mid-air, talking earnestly about a molecular model suspended beside him.

"Oh, Scott. What good timing." He didn't remember ever seeing Penelope looking so relieved. "I'm afraid I'm an awful duffer. Brains has been explaining all this to me and it's just not sinking in."

Scott took a moment to look at Brain's eyes. They were over-bright, and his face was flushed.

"Hey, Brains," he said, carefully. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm per-perfectly capable of doing my w-work. This is an emergency, for g-goodness sake."

"It is at that." Scott dropped onto a well-worn velvet seat beside Penelope, and leant forward. "You've got something?"

"Scott!" Alan's head appeared beside Brains, who rudely shoved him away. His voice could still be heard. ""He's sick, Scott! He won't listen."

Brains ignored him. "Yes, I have something, if p-people would stop fussing around m-me and p-pay attention." His stutter was markedly worse.

"Paying attention now, Brains. Fire away."

"Very well. I have isolated the aspects of b-both schematics of the GDF p-planes and Thunderbird Two that are b-both analogous with one another and may have some p-part to play in this situation. The factors are reduced to 16, of which f-four were likely culprits. I've since reduced that to t-two."

The flame grew.

"Which are?"

"The terellium alloy and the AFC. S-Scott, it's a conductivity problem. As you know, terellium alloy is the world's g-greatest isotropic electrical conductor. Six times superior to c-copper. Its ampacity is extraordinary. But! If you apply an electrical field that has current going in the opposite direction, it is an anisotropic- an anisotropic conductor. Do you see?"

"I'm sorry, Brains, not quite there yet." Scott glanced at Kayo, who gave the smallest of shrugs.

"But it's so – " Brains sighed, extravagantly. "It's the AFC. They've – they've used the AFC as a s-sort of electrical m-magnetochiral anisotropy creator. It's the dopant atoms in the terellium… The fluon engines with their crystalline central c-cortex become a chiral scattering mechanism which forms the – it f-forms the – Scott?"

"I'm here, Brains."

"It's the conductivity. It's turned the whole p-plane into a semiconductor that – the current is flowing into the AFC. Do you see it?"

"I think I h'understand. You've reversed the polarity!" cried Parker.

"Yes, that is p-precisely what I did not say," said Brains, with asperity.

"I'm afraid you've gone somewhere beyond us, Brains," Lady Penelope said, with great accuracy. "Is it possible, I wonder, to put all this into something that we could understand?"  
Brains dropped his head into his hands.

"How c-can you not see it? It's so clear. It's so – it's s-simple. It's so simple."

"Scott. Really." Alan's head appeared above Brains' bent one. "He's like, 102 in the shade."

"I'm not- !" Brains' head shot up, forcing Alan away again. "Yes, I am aware I have a f-fever, but I'm right on this. If you only applied b-band theory to - I c-can't explain it, you're all sooo - but I'm right. N-nothing with terellium alloy or an AFC w-will be able to work with this p-particular weapon."

Scott found he was standing up without ever being aware of getting to his feet.

"You're sure, Brains? You're absolutely sure?"

"Absolutely. Scott, you n-need to find a plane without t-terellium alloy or an AFC."

"Thank you, Brains," Scott said, gravely. "Now, please. Leave this with us. Go and get some rest."

"Scott? Kayo?" Brains peered at them, eyes intent and unfocused to a level only the drugged or the sick could achieve. "Scott, d-don't give up. I've been thinking. They c-could be alright. D-don't give up."

"We won't."

"I m-mean it. Manual release of the m-module. Get it ab-bove. Two would have to sink f-faster, but they would see that."

Scott nodded, slowly. "Get the main body of Two to sink faster so that the module would float clear." The possibility began to live in him. "Virgil's smart enough to figure that out. He'd find a way to get Four free. It's physics, like John always says."

"And Scott?" Brains was crouching down so low over the comm unit his face filled the view. "I think they used the p-prototype of this weapon on Two b-before. In the London attack? Not yet as effective, b-but perhaps it wasn't a malfunction of the AFC, as we thought."

A hand with a thermometer band appeared on his head. Brain's face was so close even Scott could read the numbers that appeared there.

"It's 103!" Alan's voice was a wail. "Scott-!"

"Oh, for g-goodness sake!"

"Brains, he's right. You need to get back to bed."

"I'm already in bed!"

"Then – "

Lady Penelope's smooth voice came through. "Brains, you've been simply wonderful. We'll take it from here. Now you must stop worrying Alan. He's quite distressed. Be a dear and take your medicine for him, won't you?"

Centuries of simply expecting people to obey a Creighton-Ward request was in that voice, and Brains was not immune.

"Well, alright. If you p-promise me, Scott."

"I promise. Both things."

"I am f-feeling a little… a little…"

"Yes, Brains, I'm sure you are." If caramel could speak, it would sound like Lady Penelope when she needed to soothe. "Get some rest, and we'll report back to you soon."  
The avatar disappeared, and it seemed as though everyone in the room drew in a breath.

"Well…"

"Scott? What do you think?" All smoothness gone; this was Penelope on the hunt.

"I could grasp about half of that. I think I get the general idea. But I need to talk it over with John. He might make more sense of it." Scott tapped his comm unit. "Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Five."

A moment, and then EOS' sweet voice.

'Thunderbird Five here.'

"EOS, I need to speak with John."

'I'm afraid I can't let you do that.'

A blink.

"Say again, EOS?"

'I can't let you wake him up. I've put him to sleep.'

A flood of cold through his body, a turning of recent nausea. His throat grew tight, but he managed to keep his tone calm.

"What do you mean by that, EOS?"

'He needed sleep. His bio-scans were alarming. And he wouldn't go to bed. I made so much noise he had to get up off the bathroom floor and go to bed. Then I put him to sleep.'  
A swooping fear of euphemism. Instant images of vacuum invited in, of oxygen denied.

"How did you do that?"

A delighted child's chuckle.

'I flooded him with alpha waves attuned to his brain pattern. He's not going to wake up until I stop. And that won't be for another five hours.'

"Oh." He heard the small exhalation from beside him and realised Kayo had been just as deeply frightened. EOS and John might be good friends, but Scott understood two things, completely, in that second. The first was that John and Thunderbird Five would always be utterly vulnerable to EOS's whims. He'd known that, and accepted John's assurances that it wouldn't be a problem, but that certainty looked frangible now.

And the other was that he fundamentally did not trust EOS.

And yet, at least for the next few hours, he had to.

"Do you think you could reconsider that EOS? I really need to discuss something with John."

'No.'

A child's mulish refusal. Scott had a different thought.

"Well, then, EOS, do you think you could listen to the recorded conversation on the comm between Brains and I and see what sense you can make of it?"

'I'd be delighted to.' Several seconds' silence, and then another laugh. 'Of course.'

"You understand what he is saying?"

'He's awfully clever for a human.'

"That he is. EOS, do you think you could explain it to us?"

'He's already explained it.'

Kayo intervened. "EOS, we're all rather tired. It would help us a lot if you made it simple for us."

John's programming was so bizarrely brilliant that it even allowed a computer to sound smarmy.

'It really is already simple. I can make it simpl-er. The weapon is a directed anti-energy one that reverses the currents in the semi-conductors throughout a plane so that they flow back into the AFC which acts as a kind of magnet and collects every bit of power. Would you like it simpler still?'

"I told you," Parker muttered in the background. "H'it's reversed the polarity."

"No, EOS, that's fine." Scott exchanged a rueful look with Kayo. "But one question; is it specifically geared to work with an AFC and terellium alloy alone, or would this work on any electrical engine?"

'It's not like a usual EMF at all. It is targeted to work with terellium specific p-n junctions. A non-terellium engine would not be affected.'

"Thank you. And thank you for looking after John, EOS."

'My pleasure.'

The connection was gone. Kayo gave him a significant look.

"When this is all over, we are going to have to have a long hard chat with John. And not on Five."

"Agreed. But for now, we've got something to go on after all. So." He clapped his hands together. "Non-terellium engines."

Kayo raised her hands wide.

"Honestly, Scott, I wouldn't know where to start. Nothing in the air these days that doesn't have terellium all through it."

"And that's been true for the last twenty years." Scott frowned at nothing as he worked through his vast knowledge of current air machines of all kinds. "I mean, the AFC's easy enough. Just take it out of the engine – though that would leave it vulnerable to an ordinary EMF attack. Still, if we want to get after them we'll just have to trust that these jerks are using their new and improved version alone. Lady Penelope?"

"If you can't think of anything, I don't know who can. Your father brought you up in the industry after all. Is there anyone, do you think, at Tracy Industries..?"

Scott gave a half –shrug. "There's Del Irani. She's the head of development now, she's got access to the latest database. But I know for a fact terellium is the go to. No one would not use it – it's so much lighter, and stronger, and just better. Who could sell a plane made with anything else?"

A cough from Parker.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Scott, but I may know someone 'oo might know something about a plane on the quiet. H'if you take my meaning."

"I'm afraid we're not quite up to divining meaning this morning, Parker. Out with it, if you please."

"Quite right, m'lady." Parker straightened. "I 'appen to 'ave a friend what has access to a certain type of plane that might fit our perticular requirements."

Scott swung about. "You do? What type of plane? Where?"

"And just who is this person, Parker?"

"'Is name is Spider Dawson, m'lady."

"Spider? How unpleasant. What does he call you? Nosey, I suppose."

"Not quite m'lady."

"Well?" A stare of pure ice. Parker sighed.

"Sushi. 'E called me Sushi, m'lady."

"Sushi? Why on Earth?"

"From Aloysius. 'E 'as what you might call an h'original mind."

"That's regrettable."

"One way of putting it."

"And where does this Spider person live?"

"On the south coast, m'lady, in Kent."

"Well, then, we best get going."

"Wait!" Scott had watched this exchange with bemusement. "Wait. What kind of plane, Parker?"

"Oh, the plane?" Parker gave a sudden smile. ""A Spitfire, Mister Scott, sir."

 **Notes:**

I may have a bit of a crush on Del Irani - hence she got in there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8** **: Plane-speaking**

 **Summary:**

First, catch your plane...  
Oh, and to quote Soleil-Lumiere - Penelope's got it bad.

 **Notes:**

I apologise for the delay in the update. Revolting experience at work, a week's stress leave, and no writing. All better now. Thank you for hanging in there, and I hope you enjoy.  
Once again, thanks to my luminous beta, SL.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

Penelope sat back in FAB1, managing to relax even as her back was ramrod straight. It was a trick, an art, she learned from her mother. Scott sat forward beside her with clenched fists, unconsciously rocking slightly, willing her car to fly faster. She observed him, missed Sherbert, and wondered at Kayo.

Sherbert was back in 'Dunedin', her Scottish manor near Achnasheen, being fussed over by his personal attendant- who, appearances notwithstanding, was not, in fact, Parker. He had a slight chill, all big wet eyes and snuffly nose, and the thought of taking him traipsing through secret coastal caves was one to which she could not agree. It would have been as impossible to ensure Bertie's comfort as it was to maintain her own grooming standards. One could not retain elegance whilst spelunking, the very name gave it away.

She missed him. She was too self-aware not to recognise the role Sherbert played in her life. He was her familiar, a companion who allowed her to visit upon him all her own fears and anger. Were he here now she would be telling him not to fuss so, FAB1 would get them there all in good time, and there was absolutely no point whatsoever in pressing his nose against the pane and huffing. She side-eyed Scott.

But Kayo – that was the thing that gave her pause. She was back on the GDF base, keeping abreast of each development as it may (or may not, it seemed to Penelope) happen, and looking to source high octane fuel, long banned for all kinds of engines around the planet but still produced in a couple of refineries under strict supervision. It was what Kayo had said as she and Scott left that bothered Penelope, dug under her skin with sharp little teeth.

Kayo had given a semi-formal salute in the misty rain, smiling crookedly, and then, as FAB1 drew up outside the B and B with Parker at the wheel and Penny prepared to step inside, IR's security agent had thrown her arms around her and whispered, "Don't worry, we'll find him."

Him.

It should have been 'them', of course, we'll find 'them', but it was quite distinct. Him.

We'll find him.

Well, it was absurd.

And what was most absurd was that, until this very minute, her mind had not once questioned the singular form and had immediately replaced 'him' with 'Gordon' - without ever considering Virgil or the young pilot from the day before… Drago, that was his name.

Penelope gave a quiet sigh.

"Something wrong?' Scott, fidgeting like a schoolboy, no doubt regarding FAB1's top speed of 700kph only a hair above walking pace.

"Not at all," she replied, crisply. "Parker, I believe some music may pass the time more pleasantly."

"Very good, m'lady."

She eyed him carefully as he selected the music. Left to his own devices, he would choose neo-punk or some ghastly northern brass-band. Instead, under her stern mental directive, he keyed in a much better choice, the latest k-pop. She decided to ignore Scott's wince.

Gordon.

As Parker had once so plaintively put it – why did it have to be you?

Her feelings about Gordon were so complicated.

Well, no, that wasn't right. That was the kind of woolly thinking she despised. Her feelings about Gordon were quite simple.

The minute he walked into a room, the second she caught sight of him or thought of him or someone mentioned his name – it was if the doors and windows of her tightly shuttered soul were thrown wide open and a glorious burst of breezy sunshine swept through them. It was exhilarating, intoxicating, left her younger than she'd ever been and older than she ever imagined she could be.

And exposed, so exposed, as if that bright light flooded every dark and hidden corner of her.

Hard to find her feet in the glare. So difficult to dissemble in the brightness.

No, it wasn't her feelings that were complicated where Gordon was concerned. It was her thoughts.

Her logical, rational, analytical mind that slammed shut the doors and windows and told her precisely why Gordon Tracy was the worst choice she could possibly make.

"Passing over Cambridge now, m'lady."

"Very good, Parker."

"So this friend, this Spider. He's really got a Spitfire?"

"No, Mister Scott, but h'I do so enjoy taking people on wild goose chases."

"Parker."

"Sorry, m'lady."

You're not, she thought, but she didn't blame him.

"Scott, really. We'll be there in less than ten minutes. You'll find out all about it then."

Scott ran his hands through his hair and blew out his breath – in lieu of punching the back of the seat, Penelope guessed.

"I know. It's just – and you say it works? It's in good working condition? This Spider flies it regularly?"

She suspected Parker's eye-roll would do him an injury, so instead she said, "From what Parker has told me, it's used on regular runs across to France for black market skulduggery. I can't imagine Mister Dawson would relish a dip in the Channel, so I daresay he's got it in reasonably good order."

"'E keeps it in top 'ole condition, Mister Tracy."

"Good. Good, that's good."

"If I didn't know better, Scott, I'd say you were nervous."

And that was a squirm if ever she saw one.

"I- maybe?" He gave an expressive shrug. "I've never flown anything like a Spitfire. It has a completely different engine, completely different instruments… what if…"

She waited. Waiting in patience for men to make up their minds about exposing a vulnerability painfully obvious to everyone else was another art her mother taught her.

"This might be our only shot, Penelope." His voice dropped, as if talking to himself."What if I screw it up?"

"First of all, it is not our only shot. I believe there are six fully functioning Spitfires in the UK, and if this one goes awry we'll track down another, or some equally ancient craft. Secondly – Scott Tracy, you were born to fly. Your father once told me he'd never seen anything you couldn't master when it came to taking risks in mid-air. If frightened eighteen year-olds could fly the things in the Battle of Britain after ten hours' training, I am sure a pilot of your caliber will manage with less."

"Yeah?"

Oh, dear, men were ridiculous creatures. He looked like she'd patted him on the head.

And she thought of Gordon, who would be leaning back, hands behind his head, feet up on the back of the seat, saying, "Spitfire, huh? Piece of cake. I'll do a loop-the–loop for you, Pen," before giving her a cheesy grin.

So vivid it startled her. The only reason she drew in her breath quite so deeply and suddenly.

"We're passing Canterbury now, m'lady."

"Excellent, Parker. Where exactly is this place?"

"Bridge, m'lady. Small spot, outside Canterbury proper." Parker brought the revs down low, and FAB1 began gliding downward. "Just ahead, m'lady. Near the old ruin, 'e is."

A large, empty field lay below them, and at the end of a long drive lined by ancient oaks stood the shell of an old Stuart manor house, a stark and unlovely ruin not yet softened by ivy.

"Spider's round the back, where the old stables were in days past."

Scott craned forward. "I can't see any kind of hangar."

Parker gave a chuckle. "Well, you wouldn't, would you? Old Spider 'asn't flown in air shows for ten years or more, and supposedly 'e doesn't own a Spitfire anymore. Wouldn't do to keep it in a great big bleedin' 'angar now, would it?"

"Language, Parker."

"Sorry, m'lady."

A frown, and Scott began peering about. "But you're sure he still has it."

"Oh, h'I'm sure, Mister Tracy." Parker took one hand off the wheel to tap his nose meaningfully, thereby bringing attention to the one feature of his face that really didn't need it. "And, h'if you don't mind me sayin', it would be better if you leave the 'ole bargaining bit to me. 'E's a funny old bloke, is Spider."

Scott said something under his breath, but subsided back against the seat.

They landed smoothly, and drove on to the old stables, where Parker finally stopped the car next to what appeared to be a totally deserted and barely upright building. A depressing mist coiled about the mellowed stones. All three of them got out, and Parker gave a long, low whistle.

In answer, two crows startled from the budding oak tree beside the stables and flapped away, cawing their dismay.

Scott spun slowly on his heel.

"Where is he?"

"H'I'm sure 'e'll be 'ere presently."

"Hello? Spider?" The shout died in the early spring dampness, heightening the sense of desolation, and Penelope raised an eyebrow. "That didn't feel silly at all," Scott muttered.

"Not promising, Parker."

"Well, shouting for 'im won't 'elp, m'lady." Parker sniffed. "'E's 'arf deaf, is old Spider."

There were times when Parker was quite insufferable.

A shuffling from behind them, and Penelope swung about to find a small man standing behind her.

His hair was a dark red now paled with gray. Down one side of his face a long, twisted skein of skin showed the ravages of some long distant trauma. But it was his eyes that Penelope noticed; the saddest brown eyes she'd ever seen, and her wilful heart went out to him at once. He looked at each one of them, closely, before stretching out a surprisingly large hand to grip Parker's.

"Morn."

"Morn, Spider."

"Yoordjeele's soonee-in munya."

Parker chuckled, and nodded towards Penelope.

"No use, old son. This lackin's been speaking the Cant since she was five."

Spider cocked his head to one side, then his eyes flickered toward Scott.

"'E's a friend. Come now, would I bring a nause to a meeting?"

"True enough." Spider's stare remained, a fearsome thing from a man so physically underwhelming.

"You're lookin' well. Must be the balmy climate down 'ere."

Spider sniffed a little, as the mist rose behind him.

"Now, Spider old chum, we've come about your plane."

"Wot plane?"

"Like that, is it?" Parker gave another chuckle. "Alright then. Suppose I was to tell you h'I am putting you in the way of a nice little earner, 'ere. This one," and he jerked his thumb towards an increasingly uncomfortable Scott, "is right minted."

Scott stuck out his hand.

"Hey. Scott Tracy. Nice to meet you, Mister Dawson."

Spider looked at the hand as though Scott was offering him a long-dead fish. Penelope gave a small sigh.

"Come on, Scott. Why don't we go for a stroll and leave Parker and Mister Dawson to discuss matters in private?"

For a second she thought she'd persuaded him, but then he shook his head, stubbornly.

"No. There's no time for this." Determined, he turned back to Dawson, whose face became increasingly closed off as Scott grew more insistent. "Mister Dawson, we know you have a Spitfire. I want to buy it from you. Name your price."

"Oh, blimey," muttered Parker. "Mister Scott, h'I do wish you'd go with m'lady. This requires a delicate h'approach."

"There's no time," Scott repeated. "Mister Dawson, I am prepared to offer you twenty million dollars for your plane. That's more than twenty times what it's worth. Right here, right now. Do we have a deal?"

Spider continued to give Scott his unnerving stare. Then, slowly, he leant over and spat at Scott's feet.

"Ain't for sale."

"Mister Scott, h'if you'd only just –"

"Okay. Not for sale? Fine. I'll rent it from you. Same price."

Spider included Parker in his foul look.

"Misli, gami gra dhi-il."

Parker looked wounded.

"Nah then, nah then, Spider, me old mucker. Don't you worry about the old septic 'ere. Why don't you and me have a nice cup o'rosey, and a bit of a natter, eh?"

"Of all the appalling manners!" Penelope grabbed Scott's arm and wrenched him away. "Mister Dawson. My sincere apologies for my friend here. If you'll excuse us, Mister Tracy and I would very much like to stretch our legs for a little around your delightful ruins. Come along, Scott."

She gave him no chance of resisting, bringing his arm firmly into her side and striding off as briskly as she could manage in high heels on old cobblestones.

"Penelope!"

"Not a word." She half-dragged him around to the front of the ruined manor house, at which point he pulled away and she let him. His eyes when he faced her were firing blue sparks of anger.

"Penelope, I don't have time to bargain with this guy. We need to see this plane, get it in the air and get back to Scotland."

"Really, Scott. I've never had to say this to you before but you can truly be a completely obnoxious American."

"Obnoxious!"

"Yes, obnoxious. And oblivious. When Parker advises something in these kinds of situations, I find it best to listen to him."

"I get it. Believe me, I do. They probably need to sit and spin a yarn or two, have a beer, whatever. They probably get down to business after an hour of catch up. I don't have that hour."

"Then you don't have that plane."

"For crying out loud – am I the only one who gets that we're running out of time?"

It felt like a slap.

"Of course I know that time is of the essence. However – "

"I'm being obnoxious? I'm being a big brother who would move heaven and earth to save his younger brothers!"

A crunch on the gravel of the driveway announced Parker's return.

''E's 'avin' a think. Blimey, Mister Scott, when you put your foot in it you really go the 'ole 'og, beggin' your pardon."

Scott whirled on him.

"Did you explain to Mister Dawson that this is an international emergency?"

"No. H'I told him you weren't as big a tosser as you seemed, and that you'd explain it all once h'I persuaded you to not be. Such a tosser," he added, helpfully.

"What am I not getting here?" Scott's frustration would fuel a reactor, and Penelope felt a pang of sympathy for him amidst her irritation. "We came to get the plane, right?"

"H'it's like I told you, Mister Scott. The situation's delicate."

"Suppose you explain fully, Parker."

"Right you are, m'lady." Parker glanced back in the direction of the old stables, where Spider had disappeared inside. "You see, Spider used to live up north with 'is wife and two little nippers. She was something, old Ruby. And them kids! They was a 'andful, but the 'appiest pair I ever knew. Could get into mischief in a Sunday school, if you know what h'I mean. Ruby used to fly the postal run around the islands up there, up in the h'Orkneys. She loved flying, any weather, she'd be up in it." He paused, and cleared his throat. "She 'ad the kids with 'er when the '48 Flux hit."

Penelope gave a little sound of distress.

"Well, old Spider, 'e wasn't the same after that, as you can imagine. The government paid 'im out some compensation, since Ruby was working for the Post h'Office when she died, and h'after a few years 'e used it to re-build the Spitfire." Parker's eyes were as sorrowful as his tone. "That plane is his family now."

There was silence. The same two crows that had startled before circled back to the ruined manor and landed on an old ceiling joist now stark and incongruous as it speared into the sky. Scott let out a long, slow breath.

"Okay. I'm sorry, Parker. I guess I blew it."

"No point apologisin' to me, Mister Scott."

"You're right." A grimace. "Do you think Spider will listen to me at all?"

"H'if you approach 'im right."

A crisis of confidence was not what anyone needed right now. Penelope took matters in hand again.

"Your father was somewhat of a legend when it came to making a deal. I feel quite sure you've inherited enough of his charm – and his hard-headedness - to get through."

A rueful chuckle, and Scott's shoulders straightened slightly.

"I'll give it my best."

The three International rescue operatives went back to the old stables, where Scott stepped forward and knocked politely on the door. It took a disheartening length of time before Spider appeared, looking sadder than ever. To Scott's credit, he met the man's eyes directly with his own.

"Mister Dawson. I apologise, very sincerely, for my attitude before. My father always said I could get so blinded about my objective I would miss what was right in front of my face." Spider blinked slowly, a possible acknowledgement. "I went at this all wrong, but I'd like to try and persuade you again, if you'd be so kind as to hear me out?"

No response at all from Spider. It occurred to Penelope that a different man to Scott Tracy may well have used the extensive firepower of FAB1 to bully his way to his prize at this point. It was unlikely that Spider would have any way of stopping them from simply taking the plane – wherever it was hidden. Parker would likely know. A simple readying of the cannons in FAB1 and no one would stand in their way.

But she knew, fundamentally, that wasn't how Scott would play this. It may be that they'd be here bargaining for hours in the depressing cold, it may be that it would cost Scott everything he had in one of his many bank accounts, it may be that he'd grow hoarse with persuading and arguing and pleading. But he would never bully his way to it. Even now, with so much at stake.

And it was only now, watching his preternatural calm, his studied gentleness, that she understood how much it cost him. That the temptation toward immediate action without scruple was something he'd learned to deny in order to never become what temperament and privilege beckoned him towards.

She didn't think she'd ever felt quite so proud of him.

"Mister Dawson, we have a situation. There's a group calling themselves the Luddites – no, wait, I'm sorry, they're now the Rogalian Regency. Their aim is to take over the world."

Spider gave the minutest of shrugs.

"There's always some bastard."

"Yeah. I guess my family's been running into this type for a while now. A guy called The Hood?"

A nod, and a curled lip. "Yeah. Knob-head."

"And then the Mechanic."

"H'I just 'ope we never get the Plumber. Ewww," Parker said, sotto voce, to Penelope.

Scott ground his teeth slightly, but kept going.

"This group is using a new EMF weapon to bring down planes." Penelope caught the way Spider stiffened. "It's defeated us so far. There have been at least five planes that we know of downed in the North Atlantic and the North Sea. Two people are believed to be dead. My – my brothers are missing."

Now Spider was watching Scott as if he was a completely new animal.

"We think this weapon targets the terellium and the AFC in modern planes. There are very few aircraft anywhere that don't have these features, and while the AFC is removable, the terellium is used so extensively that basically we'd have to build a plane from scratch to avoid it."

"Why don't you?"

It was a good question. Scott shrugged.

"I thought about it. There's a man and a robot I know who could just about do it in a day or so. But that's if we had the right materials – terellium is infused in the metal we use in our planes, so we'd need to source new raw materials – and that particular man is too sick just now to do anything like it."

Spider was clearly turning over everything Scott said in his mind. "What about the GDF?"

Scott nodded. "Good call. Except they're just not equipped to build things like that. Their factories assemble pre-made parts. To craft an airplane from scratch would take a week, given the right designer, right materials, right machinists. My brothers are somewhere in the North Atlantic. Perhaps the North Sea. I need to be in the air now."

Penelope heard it. She wondered if Spider did - the agony that was hidden in that word 'now'.

The old man kept his gaze on Scott. Then, after what seemed an interminable time of waiting, he lifted his chin slightly.

"You better take a look."

He turned and shuffled off around the back of the stables, and Penelope gave a sigh of relief as she followed alongside Parker and Scott.

They crossed a large field, towards a slight rise on the northern edge. A tumulus, a common enough sight throughout the countryside. Spider stopped in front of it, and now that she was standing right here Penelope could see the unnatural lines of the grass, the small straight bumps in the soil that ran down the mound to the field.

After rummaging in his pockets, Spider finally produced a slim control device, which he activated with a nicotine stained thumb. There was a rumbling from deep within the mound, and then the grass lifted upwards on sleek steel doors, and before them stood a hangar, set into the ground with a hydraulic line feeding onto the field itself. At the end of the line, illuminated under the automatic lights but hidden by a tarpaulin, was the iconic shape of an RAF Spitfire.

"You little beauty," Parker breathed beside Penelope. She kept her eyes on Scott, watched him straighten up as if electrified.

"You want to 'ave a look, better get 'er kit orff."

The old man reached for the tarpaulin, and Scott leapt to help, almost stumbling in his eagerness.

"Oh dear. We're having a Boy's Own moment, I believe," Penelope said, under her breath. Parker chuckled.

"Too right. It's a Spitfire, m'lady!"

The tarpaulin was pulled away, and the plane was revealed, in typical camouflage paintwork of dark greens above and blue-gray below. There were no roundels, or other markers. It was immediately apparent that this was a plane that did not want to be identified.

Scott stepped forward, his face a picture of reverence, and reached up to slide a hand along the elegant wing.

"You ever flown one before?"

"Can't say I have," Scott murmured, running his hand over the curve of the strut to where the elevators sat in neutral position. Spider gave a grunt.

"Sushi. What sort of pilot is 'e?"

"Tolerable, old son." Parker cocked his head, and answered the real question. "H'I'd trust my life to 'im, come down to it. Mind you, not so sure h'I'd trust Agnes to 'im."

"Agnes?"

The old man gave a snort.

"S'pose you Yanks are too 'igh and mighty to name your planes. All numbers and such."

"Well." Scott paused in the touching that was, in Penelope's view, becoming almost too much like fondling. "I guess. Although, I did call my first plane Sally. After Sally Speedwell, the ice skating champion?"

"Gor. Where do you find 'em?" Spider muttered to Parker, then hitched at his pants, and hooked his thumb. "Alright. Sod off, you two. Don't need no gawkers 'angin' about. This sooblik needs to concentrate if 'e's going to fly old Aggy."

"Right." Parker was clearly used to being dismissed by one of his many dubious contacts when their insalubrious business was about to be conducted. "Well, good to see you again, Spider."

A grunt and a handshake, and Penelope and Parker were clearly gone from the old man's thoughts as he turned to Scott.

"Right you. Let's see what you know about aircraft. If anything."

Penelope reached forward and grabbed Scott's sleeve.

"Scott – good luck. We'll head back north." On impulse, but without any sense of foreboding, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "You'll be wonderful. I promise."

The look on his face told her how much he had needed that.

"Thanks, Lady Penelope. I'll see you back there. Make sure you and Kayo get every drop of fuel you can scavenge."

"Good point, Mister Scott," Parker said. "Oi, Spider? Got any spare fuel? We're going to need h'everything we can get."

Spider glowered, clearly his preferred expression.

"You can take what I got. Over there." He pointed with his chin towards a 44 gallon drum set against the wall of the underground hangar.

"Where on earth are we going to fit that, Parker?"

"I 'ate to say it, m'lady, but on the seat next to you. There's no room in the boot. What with all the weaponry and suchlike."

"Oh dear. A most disagreeable travelling companion. But needs must." Penelope gave a theatrical sigh. "Would you like me to go and fetch the car while you handle that drum, Parker?"

"If you'd be so kind, m'lady."

"Very well." One last, smiling look at Scott, already distracted by what Spider Dawson was showing him under the tail section, and she stepped back over the field. The mist had begun to rise a little with the feeble midday sun, and she felt her own spirits rise with it.

They had a plane, it would seem, and their plan to use it was so ridiculously farfetched that the likelihood of the Rogalian Rotters thinking of some way to counter it was minute, to say the least. With long, easy strides she reached the car, and rather enjoyed the look on Parker's face when she roared back to him across the damp grass.

"Careful, m'lady." Parker would never dare remonstrate with her, but his pleading occasionally had a certain tone to it. "Wouldn't want to be getting 'er undercarriage mucky."

Ah. So many lines about a lady's undercarriage to be carefully avoided, once again thanks to her mother's expert tutelage on the appropriate behaviours of a young aristocratic woman. Instead, she vacated the driver's seat for him as he strenuously levered the drum off the trolley and into the spare back seat.

"Cor. That's going to provoke FAB1's balance more than a bit."

"I'm sure you can handle it, Parker." She settled beside the drum, wrinkling her nose delicately against the petroleum smell. "Goodness. How unpleasant. Never mind. Parker, to Lossiemouth, as quickly as you can, please. Oh, and Parker?"

"Yes, m'lady?"

"I was rather wondering – have you ever mistaken someone saying 'him' for 'them'? Say, in the hurry of leaving, or on a windy day. Or indeed because they were being quite indistinct in their speech. By any chance?"

Parker looked up at her through the rear-view mirror, and his eyes were too kind and far too knowing.

"All the time, m'lady."

"That's what I thought." Penelope sat back, and observed the landscape, wished good fortune to Scott, and folded her fear away carefully where the light of a lost smile wouldn't blind her when she least expected.

 **Notes:**

I have been fascinated with Shelta Thari since I was a child, so this was a fun opportunity to trot some basic words and phrases out. Shelta was/is known as part of The Talk, the Cant, Gammon - it was used among underworld folk in the UK for hundreds of years. There are many competing theories as to where it comes from - some say Hebrew, some a northern Indian people known as the Dom, some ancient Irish, my favorite has it as the language of the Picts or Scots. It is most well preserved among the Travellers in Ireland and parts of Britain. If you watch the TV series 'Peaky Blinders' you'll hear them say, "In Shelta" - use the coded language so others won't understand.  
Spider and Parker greet each other in Shelta, but then Parker says don't bother, Penelope (the girl, 'lackin') speaks it. I don't know if he's bluffing, but it's possible Parker taught her as a game when she was young. 'Misli' means go, leave, and the rest of that phrase is essentially 'bad luck to you'. 'Sooblik' is a boy.  
'Nause' comes from nauseous/nauseated and suggests a dodgy person. It's not Shelta, more part of the Gammon, street-talk. 'Cup of rosey' is Cockney rhyming slang - Rosey-Lee = tea.  
Right - on to Scott in a Spitfire!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9** **: Chocks away**

 **Notes:**

My brilliant beta Soleil_Lumiere keeps me honest, believe me! Once again, sincere thanks to her.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

"Scott Tracy, ladies and gents. He's so far out of his depth, when he looks up all he sees is ocean. Dark blue, zero light. He's on his third tank, but whoops! He hasn't got one. He's so far down he's swimming with coelacanths, and they're having issues with the water pressure."

"He's so lost they've sent Waldo out to find him."

"He's so behind they've lapped him twice and started to mistake him for a pool boy on his break."

"Enough. God, you two."

Scott remembered glaring at Gordon and Alan, giggling like the idiots they were as he tried to assemble the first Im-Ex – immersion experience - player on Tracy Island. Brains had refused to leave the lab for something so trivial, Virgil was in Sweden, John was in space and Grandma was in Kansas, so somehow it had devolved onto Scott to set up their brand new family viewing extravaganza. The instructions were written in hieroglyphics, and at least three essential parts were missing.

He remembered hitting the wrong switch and sending the entire island into darkness. He remembered Gordon and Alan laughing so hard they were crying.

The moment was so clear to him it provided a kind of running commentary on permanent loop as he gazed at the cockpit of the Spitfire and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

The looks Spider was giving him didn't help his confidence, either.

"So – mind running me through the controls one more time?"

"You know where yer goin'?"

"Yes. Of course." Scott cleared his throat and straightened up from where he was peering at the various levers and knobs on the interior of the plane. "Lossiemouth GDF base, North Scotland."

"So you know the range you got in this old gal?"

He felt like a schoolboy in front of a particularly bloody-minded principal.

"Uh – you said 434 miles, at economic cruise mode of, ah – 220 miles per hour?"

"And 'ow far's Lossie?'

"Well, it's 768 kilometres, which is - uh, beyond my range."

"Yeah." It was as if Spider took some pleasure in that. "So you'll 'ave to land in Edinburgh, re-fuel there."

Scott nodded, concentrating hard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much to learn in such a short space of time, and the nagging sense that he was missing details added to his sense of drowning upright on dry land.

"I'll contact Lady Penelope, get her to drop 50 litres of whatever Kayo's managed to find at Edinburgh airport."

Spider gestured into the cockpit. "See an automatic course finder in here?"

"Uh – no."

Spider nodded. Unless Scott was completely misreading him, the old man was taking a grim kind of amusement in Scott's complete disadvantage.

"You use yer gyro and yer compass. But look." He pointed to where the stick was positioned. "If you 'ave to move that to check the gyro, you'll tip 'er, 'ead off yer course. And with the distance you want to travel, you don't want to be doing nothin' but a straight line."

"So – how do I navigate?"

Spider shrugged. "Landmarks, mostly."

"Landmarks? What about when I'm over the sea?"

"Well, that's when you use yer gyro, innit?"

"And lose my line?"

Another shrug. "So you keep in yer head the sun's heading and work off that."

"Sun?" Scott felt his anxiety crank a notch. "Have you been to Scotland?"

At once, he regretted the comment. Whatever traces of humour existed in Spider's face moments ago was gone, and that kind of elemental sadness that defined the man took its place. An apology seemed more gauche than the stumble, so Scott tried to let him know his regret in the way he ducked his head and changed the subject.

"Well… doesn't look like there's a seat in here."

"Sit on yer chute."

It wasn't until Spider stumped over to the rear of the hangar and pulled out a tidily packed bag with straps that Scott realised what he was talking about.

"I sit on my parachute?"

Spider motioned for him to turn around, and he automatically opened his arms for the parachute straps to be fitted onto him. It was a modern parachute, he noted with relief. Before he could turn back, a headset was dumped unceremoniously on his head, and as a he turned a pair of thin gloves was thrust at him.

"Get 'em on yer. That's yer comms and those gloves will let you work the controls. Gets cold up there in the old Mark Five."

"I – thanks?"

"And check yer nails regular. No oxygen meter in the old gal, so you have to keep an eye on yer oxygen levels that way. Yer nails get blue, drop 'er a few thousand feet."

Scott looked at him in something like astonishment.

"Now, yer heading is 'ere – on the compass. Keep to that. 'ere – 57 degrees, 42 minutes North, 3 degrees 20 minutes West. So yer 'eadin' nor-norwest. You'll cross London and Leeds and – yeah, sod that. Just get to the coast and fly up 'er. Once you get to Edinburgh you just 'ave to cut straight up over Aberdeenshire."

Scott nodded. It made sense. He found his breathing was growing short, and he realised he was more than tense. As a man who prided himself on his coolness in a crisis, he hated to admit to himself that his pure ignorance here was scaring the hell out of him.

For a second, the thought that this task was finally beyond him flooded his mind.

He felt old Spider's eyes on him. When he met that look, it was unreadable. An uncomfortable few seconds passed, then Spider nodded slightly and looked past him to the soft green field.

"Yer brothers. Wot are their names?"

"Uh – Gordon. And Virgil." Scott gave a shaky chuckle. "I was just thinking of what Gordon would say, watching this. He'd be laughing his head off at me."

"'ighly 'umorous lad, I take it?"

"You could say that. And Virgil, he – he's about the nicest guy you'd ever meet." He drew a hand over his face, willing away the tension. "And they risk their lives, every day, to save other people."

"Mmph." Spider grimaced. "Don't know what yer doin' standin' around 'ere yabbering about them for."

It was so unexpected and so unfair that it surprised a laugh out of Scott. Spider left him, climbing easily onto the wing, pulling back the hood and opening the pilot's door, so Scott couldn't see his expression. But he knew that he'd just experienced Spider's pep talk, and he realised with gratitude that, in some alchemic way, it had helped. He scooped up his parachute and followed Spider onto the wing.

"Put 'er down there," Spider said, and Scott dropped the chute into the moulded metal space and then squeezed down to sit on top of it.

It was astonishingly tight. Scott was used to the freedom of movement of modern planes, and Thunderbird 1 in particular. Here, the metal sides pressed in against him. He realised he couldn't do up his flying harness, but before he could say anything, Spider was leaning over, doing it up for him, tugging on each strap to tighten it so much that Scott felt like he couldn't move even if the plane corkscrewed.

"That's yer quick release, there. Right. Yer set." He hesitated, then Spider ran one hand slowly along the edge of the cockpit. "You take care of 'er. Wouldn't be doin' this if I didn't know what those bastards can do. I ain't got no bombs, but she can carry two of 'em, hundred kilos each. I know that won't stop much these days, but if you get the chance, you grab a couple of bombs off them GDF and you give those arseholes a right bollocking."

"I'll do my best."

"Yeah." He sniffed. "I dunno."

As send-offs it was hardly Churchillian. Spider dropped down from the wing, then tapped at his head. "I can talk you through the take-off. Leave the hood open until she's away."

"Right. Thanks, Spider."

There was no response to that. Instead, the old man headed over to the control bank against the east wall and hit something. At once, the hydraulic chain attached to the Spitfire's undercarriage started up and began hauling the plane up and out onto the grass. When it was fully clear of the mound, the hydraulics were shut off, and Spider came back to bend under the plane and disengage the chain, before heading back to the RT controls.

"You hearin' me?"

It was utterly disconcerting to have a voice coming in at his ear. In his USAF and GDF flying in the 2050s, all communication was done via 3D vid-connects, with the avatars of the person communicating appearing above the control panel. Research had proven that being able to see the speaker had increased comprehension time and accuracy so significantly that the use of headsets and audio-only communication was considered outdated by the time Scott took his first flights with his father as a three year old. To have a cantankerous Cockney voice echoing in his skull threw him.

"Yes?" It was instinctive to look hastily about the tiny space, trying to find the speaker, before his brain kicked in and he tapped his own headset. "Yes, loud and clear."

"Well, I'll run you through. Just 'ope I don't forget something. Been doin' this so long, it's automatic."

Oh, good. Scott would have face-palmed except for the fact that he could barely move his arms and was scared to distract himself and miss anything.

"Righto. Now. Done the pre-check, and you make sure you do it proper before you set off again. No nicks in the tyres, full movement in the rudder."

"Yep, got it."

"I bloody well 'ope so." Spider's gloominess echoed in Scott's head. "Put the trim tab to neutral. Indicator switch on. Undercarriage selection down. On the right there's the fuel gauge – I checked, you got about 48 gallons in the top tank and 37 in the lower tank. I ain't got a drop tank on 'er, so you'll 'ave to make do. Full tanks, so you fly 'er straight. No fancy maneuvers. Right – you can latch the pilot door now."

Scott leant to his left and pulled up the small metal door that opened downwards onto the wing. It clicked to in a way that sounded completely dissatisfying to Scott's ears, used to engineered automatic doors of silent precision that folded together so completely they could keep space at bay.

"Now, I locked yer hood open before. Remember to do that when yer with those GDF tossers. Check the rudder and the elevators."

Rudder. Elevators. Scott couldn't remember ever being so overwhelmed. His father had taken him into the cockpit so often as a child that flying the jets and rockets that constituted his ordinary flying were second nature to him by the time he began first using simulators, then the real thing. At his pilot's certification for USAF he felt nothing but excitement and supreme confidence.

For the first time in his life, he was swimming with the coelacanths in a cockpit.

"Now. The crank beside you."

"On my - ?"

"On yer left. That's yer rudder bias. Need to crank that fully right for take-off. She's a bitch for swing, is Agnes. She gets a swing up on take-off, the old torque. 'Ave to counter the bias."

"Right. Yes."

"The other crank's yer elevator trim – get the nose down." A thumping beside him made Scott look out to the left, and there was Spider, fitting in a thick hose to the Spitfire's side panel from a trolley. "This is just the ground accumulator. Don't worry about that. I 'ope they got a Coffman in Lossie. Anyhow. You just check yer air pressure in yer brakes."

Brakes. Right. Scott hit the port gauge and it lifted to 40 with a hiss. Another sharp hiss as he lifted a lever on his left, opened it up and latched it and the two lower needles swung up towards a horizontal pitch.

"Brakes on," he said, a flutter of competence tapping at his belly. "Parking catch locked on."

"Right. Fuel cock."

"Yeah, got it." Scott remembered Spider showing him, and reached for the upright lever in a box, lifted it up and over to the right.

"Huh." It was almost impressed. "So the two caps above – "

"Starter and ignition switch booster buttons. Magneto switches on the left – off."

"'Oo knew a Yank could be taught?"

The throttle was on his left, conveniently labelled, and was one of the only things that looked vaguely familiar to him – it was on a rudimentary track, a long distant forebear of the throttle system in TV21.

"Set your throttle at 'alf an inch open."

"Got it. Half an inch." A red handle directly beside the throttle in the same track system was the speed control, and Scott pushed it fully forward. "Speed fully engaged."

"Fully engaged is it? Gawd 'elp us. Right then - idle cut-off's on the right. " A round black control stick with a knob, and Scott grabbed it, feeling it move. "Work that one back and forward till the fuel pressure warning light's off."

It all felt so horribly inexact.

"Now, down by yer knee – yer right knee – that's the gas primer. 'Ave to unscrew that, pull 'er out, work it."

"How much?"

"I dunno. On a day like this, 'bout as long as you Yanks last – maybe four or five pulls?"

Gritting his teeth, Scott did as he was told.

"Two ignition switches on the far left – flip 'em up about now."

Done.

"Now, the two buttons above the cock – press 'em with yer left, and work the fuel pump with yer right."

Painfully, Scott thought of getting into Thunderbird 1 and flipping a switch, easing the throttle.

But suddenly, and startling a swoop of real nervous excitement in his belly, Scott saw the propellers begin to turn lazily over. The engine made a thin sound; then a burst of smoke came from the propellers as the props began spinning freely and the engine started a low burring noise.

"'Allelujia. E's got 'er going. Right. Check yer magnetos are both live and yer oil pressure's comin' up."

Scott felt the vibrations through every part of his body.

"The fuel pressure warning light's off? Then run 'er up slow. And keep that stick hard back or you'll have Aggie's nose in the grass."

Scott peered up and over the control bank in front of him.

"I can't – this nose is so long, I can't see the ground."

"Well, there ain't nothin' to see, is there?"

Landing her was going to be a complete and utter bitch.

"Now, run 'er up to zero boost. Check for magneto drop. Pressure and temp okay? Then take 'er up. And know I'll 'ave yer guts if you treat 'er wrong."

Scott sat there, feeling the energy behind and beneath him. This was it. The last moment before he committed to something that re-defined reckless even by his gold standards. He could stop the engine right now, drop open the pilot door, climb down, and be back on solid land, full of apologies to Spider for wasting his time. They'd find another way, somehow. No one would blame him.

He eased the throttle forward and grabbed the small round wheel, the 'stick', that was all he had to steer with. The revs built and she began trundling forward, slowly, then with more and more power until she was bumping on the grassy runway.

"Pull 'er nose up!" Spider's voice shouted in his ear. He pulled the stick back and she responded at once, lifting so easily he almost missed it. And then the bumpiness was gone and there was nothing but sky, and his stomach was left somewhere behind him as he heard Spider give another shout.

"E's up! Gawd 'elp us, e's up!"

He felt the lift like a giant hand, pushing him upwards. The engine burbled, the tail tried to swing out to the right and he straightened it, the props blurred at the front of the plane, and Scott had never experienced anything like it.

This was flying.

This was carving through sky, vulnerable, powerful, every second of speed squaring the exhilaration until he gave a yell of his own, completely unconscious and totally necessary.

"I love it! Spider! I love her!"

"Yeah, yeah, keep yer shirt on." But he could hear it, in his voice, the pleasure Spider was taking in watching someone else fall in love with his girl.

"Wooo!"

He was only a few hundred feet in the air, and that was thrilling. It was just high enough to feel the kind of dreamlike omnipotence that came with being above and separate but able to see every detail. There was something about being in such a small and skittish craft that gave a sense of height and speed that Thunderbird 1's efficiency had almost smoothed into nothing.

Being so close to the earth was fun, but he knew there was a southern air movement higher up that would carry him more quickly, so he eased the stick back further and watched the altimeter needle climb. At 8,000 feet he levelled off and peered over the side to see London on his left. He wasn't prone to sentimental fantasies, but for just a few minutes he couldn't help but think of those long gone pilots in the desperate days, when a look to his right might have seen banks of JU88s coming across the Channel to bomb the airfields, bomb the capital. It brought a sobering sense of their courage; this little aircraft, as gallantly as she'd lifted into the sky, felt absolutely inadequate when he thought of tracers coming towards him. It felt like going to war in a wind-up toy.

He tapped his sash.

"Thunderbird 1 – er, Scott Tracy to Thunderbird Five. Come in, Five."

To his relief, John's avatar appeared above the comm on his wrist.

"Scott? Where on Earth – "

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yeah. You missed a few pages. Talk to Kayo, she'll fill you in."

"Will do."

Even through the inadequacies of the avatar, John's face looked strained. Scott frowned.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." John's eyes, usually so steady and calm, flickered away to travel the cockpit closed around Scott's body. "So. This is a new look."

It was unsettling to see the brother who seemed to channel the serenity of space looking quite so tense. Even haunted. But clearly, he was not going to talk about it, and Scott already had his hands full with negotiating the sky in an archaic craft, so he chose to put his concern aside for now, and chuckled.

"Yeah. I washed One and she shrunk."

"Scott – "

"Relax. Kayo will fill you in. It's a Spitfire and we're lucky to have it. I'm glad to see you up and looking better."

"Yes." John's tone was as short as his response. Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. We might have to have a chat about that when I'm back on the ground. In the meantime – I have the most basic navigation in this thing. Can you get a fix on me and make sure I'm heading in the right direction?"

"Sure."

"And warn NATS and London and Edinburgh Airport that I'll need clearance, and a Coffman."

"A what now?"

"It's to restart her. Just ask them if they can do that somehow."

"I'm not going to comment on the female pronoun."

It was good to hear a ghost of dry humour. Scott laughed, and even he heard how much excitement was in his voice.

"She's called Agnes, and I am not going to do anything but talk nicely about her. She's our way of looking for the boys."

"Riight."

"And tell Kayo to get fuel to Edinburgh, I don't have the range to get all the way back in one trip."

John frowned.

"Then you're not going to have much of a search radius, either."

"I know. We can talk about putting on a drop tank when I get up there."

"In a Spitfire." John was a little dazed. "Okay. If there's nothing else you need, I am going to talk to Kayo asap. I need to be brought up to speed."

Still chuckling, Scott signed off, then sat back and enjoyed the sensation of skating through the sky.

He took Spider's advice and followed the coast up. The sea was a dull gray beneath him, with patches of brilliant blue off to the east, closer to France. From this height, the waves hitting the coast looked like thin ribbons of white, frozen in motion.

The thought of scouring an expanse like the one beneath him was a sobering one. They'd need a scanner of some sort. On his own, piloting as well as searching, it would be near impossible to see anything in the water.

It was exciting flying, undoubtedly, but it was also more hard work than he'd ever had in an aircraft in his life. He felt the little plane become more wayward as the fuel emptied. By the time Edinburgh came in sight she was swinging out to the right constantly. His hand was aching from working the rudder, his head was aching from concentrating so intently, and his shoulders needed to stretch so badly he almost opened the hood up and just held his arms aloft.

"Thunderbird Five to Spitfire Scott."

"Ha. Receiving you, John."

"I can talk you through to Edinburgh Airport. It's west of the city – you remember when we stopped there after that cruise ship fire in '61?"

"Yeah. I think so."

John might not be a hundred percent himself, but his calmness was, as ever, wonderfully reassuring.

"You'll see the M8 and M9 motorways. Where they join, it's off to the nor-northeast."

"Okay, thanks. I have no clue how they see over the front of this nose to land."

John fixed him with a patented look of his. It held a kind of assurance that went way beyond faith and deeply into certitude. Scott had never needed it more.

"You're the best pilot I know, Scott. You can do this. Right – I'm going to relay tower instructions since they can't get your frequency."

"Sure." He blew out his breath, and gripped the stick a little harder, causing the plane to tilt to one side before he corrected.

"Okay, they have you on radar –you need to veer a little more west, Scott, you've got to come in around from the south."

"Got it." He realised he was sweating profusely, even though the little cockpit was chilly. Below him and to the right he could see Edinburgh Castle, and he drew a sight-line from there directly west, bringing the plane around to find the course.

"That's great, Scott. Can you see the intersection of the freeways down there?"

"Yeah, I've got the airport. Do I have clearance? What runway?"

"Everything's grounded. All flights are down. Take runway 12 – that's the most southerly one as you come from the southwest."

"I see it." His stomach felt as though it had been hollowed out an hour ago and replaced with cold lead. It was hard to drag his eyes from the runway in order to find the landing gear controls and set them to down. There was no indicator to tell him if they were down or not; he had to just rely on the little plane and hope they were.

Or – he could get the control tower to let him know.

"John, can they tell me if my landing gear is down?"

A pause, far too long for Scott's liking, and then John came back.

"Yes, they can see your wheels. They say you're looking good, but coming in a little hot. You need to lose some airspeed."

Scott eased the throttle and watched the revs drop. Slower, slower – it felt impossible that something going this speed could stay in the air, but he had a feel for her now, and he knew she could float her way towards landing if he could help her to it.

Gently, the wings level, nose up slightly, the revs dying, and suddenly he was down, the wheels bumping against macadam, the engine roaring as he dragged the brake lever forward and she wobbled down the runway.

Finally, he came to a halt halfway along the runway, the props spinning until he killed the engine with a flick of the ignition switch.

And noticed John grinning at him, his tired eyes alight.

"You've left yourself a hell of a long walk." He shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me, Scooter."

Scott just dropped his own head back against the cockpit wall.

"I don't think I can walk. There's no feeling in my feet. I don't think I can get out of this damn seat."

"But you can fly a Spitfire." John gave an understanding nod. "You just hang there – I'll get the fuel out to you, and yes, they have a cartridge thing they reckon they can use to start the plane up again." He paused, and the look he gave him was so loaded with meaning that Scott couldn't begin to parse it. "You know, I really think this is doable. Scotty, I think you've found us a way to beat these guys after all."

**** ***** **** ***** **** **** ****  
Edinburgh Airport was a surprise.

"Wow. You have fans," said Kayo.

It was a fair comment, if somewhat bizarre in the circumstances; Scott could see people lined up by the cyclone fencing that edged the airport, pointing and waving at him as he sat uncomfortably in his Spitfire and waited for the fuel to be finished loading into the upper tank.

"Here," Kayo continued. She pushed a protein bar and water bottle at him. "You haven't eaten since 0800."

"Thank you," said Scott, sincerely. He hadn't had the chance to be hungry or thirsty; but now that she'd mentioned it, he realised he was ravenous. The bar disappeared in seconds, and then he took a long drink before handing wrapper and bottle back to her. A clunk sounded from beneath the plane as the fuel drum was changed.

"How much of this fuel do you have?" Scott asked her as she lounged on the wing, leaning with her typical insouciance on the pilot door as if she hung off World War Two aircraft all the time and was vaguely bored with the fact.

"Well, there are only two oil refineries in Europe left producing high octane fuel." Kayo watched with interest as the cans were emptied into the craft. Another truck approached from the terminal area. "And we had to do some fast talking to get this. I think Colonel Casey may have had a word or two in an ear or two. Luckily, one of the ones left is in Grangemouth refinery, just down the road a bit in the Firth of Forth, so we could locate and transport it relatively quickly once we got the go ahead. We'll have enough, Scott."

"Great." He took in a deep breath then let it out again, wiggling his shoulders. "I'll get to Lossiemouth as soon as I can, get out there today."

"Today?" She frowned at him. "I'm not sure – "

"Hello!" A tall woman with a friendly face called out as she got out of the second truck, carrying what looked like a heavy metal cylinder with lids at each end. "I'm maintenance. Jen Clachan. Got your Coffie."

For a second, Scott looked for a thermos, before mentally smacking himself upside the head.

She came over to the wing and put the metal object on it before jumping up herself. "There it is. I'll just shift you a bit, hen. I'm kippy-handed, got to get in here wi' this."

Kayo, unceremoniously shunted higher on the wing so the woman could get at the cockpit's side, looked at her with a glacial eye.

"What on earth is that?"

"This?" The woman picked up the object. "This ane's a Coffman starter and some cartridges. As asked for. I'll need to attach it to the engine. It'll get you started again," she added to Scott.

"You need me to get out?"

"Nae, don't flap. It's pure dead easy." She slung a kitbag off her shoulder and pulled out a small drill, and a piece of fire resistant cloth. "Just cover yer baws with that one."

"I- yes. Good idea." Scott put the cloth carefully across his lap as she began drilling into the forward section of the cockpit control panel, just beside the ignition switch. After fixing a bracket, she wedged in the Coffman canister and then drilled through to the starter engine before attaching a wire.

"There. You're done." She brushed the dust off the top lid. "Phew – don't mind the stoor, I don't know where they've been keeping this but it's an old one."

"I hope it still works." Scott looked at it doubtfully. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Here." Jen reached into her kitbag again. "I've got three of these cartridges. They found them all out the back, amazin' what you can find in an airport's maintenance storage. Just put one in there and hit the ignition switch and give the old engine a rev. They're toaty, but they pack a wallap."

"That's – a good thing?"

Jen gave a throaty laugh.

"Aye, it's a good thing, if it works. Something this old, who knows?"

"What's the backup plan if it's faulty?"

"Ah, you need to simmer. It'll start." Jen reached in and gave Scott a hearty handshake. "And if it doesn't, an old Mark Five like this, we can get it started with the propellers. Bit of old rope, bit of muscle, we'll get her going one way or t'other." She gave him a wink and then clomped across the wing to slide unceremoniously back to the tarmac. Kayo watched her go with a bemused expression on her face.

"I never realised how annoying cheerful optimism can be," said Kayo. Scott gave her a wry grin.

"You've lived with Gordon how long, and you've only just realised this?"

"True." She followed Jen in reaching in, but she patted Scott's shoulder instead of shaking his hand. "Just get this crate in one piece to Lossie. I think the people there have got some surprises for you – good ones that you're going to need." She leapt off the wing with a gracefulness that belied the height and sprinted off towards where Thunderbird Shadow was parked a hundred metres away.

From somewhere below, Scott heard another clatter, and then an airport worker appeared.

"All done." The airport worker gave the Spitfire a slap on the wing. "You're good to go."

Scott checked his fuel gauge and saw he now had a full upper tank. He twisted as far as he could – which wasn't much – in order to make eye contact with the man.

"Thank you."

"Ah, nae danger."

"I didn't think there was..?" But the man was gone, climbing into his truck with another cheerful wave. So far the Scots were failing horribly in living up to a reputation for dourness.

Scott was left alone.

A steady wind blew across the runway, rattling the hood as it sat locked in the open position for start-up. He watched as Kayo's plane lifted effortlessly into the dull sky. He felt the envy, but didn't acknowledge it. There was no point in wishing, only in remembering every detail of the complex start-up procedure bequeathed to him by Spider Dawson.  
Scott closed his eyes and visualised the first run through in the crowded hangar beneath the mound. It was a memorisation technique his first official flying instructor, old Lakota McNee, had taught him. He recalled the smell of high octane fuel, dampness, the green scents of early spring. He heard Spider's nasal drawl, saw the way his nicotine stained fingers jabbed at a yellowing chart on the wall.

And the first step was there. It came with a rush of relief; with the first step, he knew he could follow the rest, a trail in his mind as clear as footsteps in snow. He made each move, remembering to adjust for a lighter fuel load, and then came to the point when he had to insert the cartridge into the canister on his control panel, press the ignition button, and pump the fuel.

She started like a dream.

"Oh, you good thing," he breathed. Building the revs, letting out the brakes, bringing the nose up – he understood, suddenly, how men could fling themselves into these planes when under fire and get swiftly into the air, because there was a rhythm to it, a logic of its own, and he felt himself absorb it.

The route was almost directly north to Elgin and Lossiemouth.

"Balmoral Castle down below. I had to sweet talk the NATS guys to get air clearance for you. Hey, you look out the window, you could wave to the king," John said through the headset.

"Yeah, I figure George doesn't need a Spitfire zooming his barbecue."

"Do kings have barbecues?"

"Royal barbecues. They throw a peasant on the grill."

"No, that was the old days," John said, seriously. "Nowadays it's just Americans who disturb their deer stalking with antique airplanes."

"Ugh." Scott flexed his shoulders. "I'm so sweaty and cramped. No one would want to eat me."

"I – don't know how to respond to that."

Flying across Aberdeen and reaching Elgin took forty minutes. By the time he approached Lossiemouth airbase, he'd been in the cockpit over three hours, and his body ached to move.

John came through with the runway clearance, and he set her down with far less trepidation on this, his second time at landing a completely unfamiliar aircraft. She swung out a little, but he corrected, and she gentled to a jaunty taxi speed that was smoky and noisy and kind of fun, given the looks on the faces of the aircrew rushing out to watch her come to a stop by the hangars. He gave them a cocky salute. Kayo, standing hipshot by the main hangar door, rolled her eyes.

Killing the engine. Releasing the straps. Unlatching and sliding back the hood. Unlatching the pilot's door.

It was almost automatic, and he felt a flood of affection for the little craft.

And tiredness. Dear god, he was tired.

He couldn't afford to think about that. So much more to be done today. But he needed to get out, stretch his legs and hit the head while they re-fuelled her. Pins and needles rushed into his legs as he tried to pull himself out, and when he finally cleared the cockpit he had to crack his back in order to straighten up. The cockpit size was going to take some getting used to. He dropped down to the tarmac and began a slow jog towards the hangar.

"And where do you think you're going?" Kayo stood in his way as he approached.

"Bathroom break while they re-fuel."

"Uh-huh. You're not thinking of getting back up there today?"

Scott stopped, bewildered and vaguely annoyed.

"Of course I am. There's hours of daylight left."

"I knew you were going to say that. Scott," she said, gently, "it's 1500 hours. By the time you got to the spot in the Atlantic where Thunderbird Two went down, it would be time to turn around and come back, and even then you'd be landing in the dark. Unless you think you could fly Agnes in the night-time?"

"What?" He looked skyward. She was right – he knew it without even looking at his watch. The light, always dull, was gentling further into a late afternoon feel. "But…"

"I know." Kayo's eyes held nothing but sympathy. "Believe me, I know. But you have to wait until first thing tomorrow."

Scott's fists bunched together unconsciously as he turned towards the northwest. Even as his soul yearned to be up there, even as his body urged him to action, his rational commander's brain added it all up and came to the same conclusion. He'd been fooling himself, ignoring everything but the compulsion towards his brothers and the feeling of finally having something that would allow him to meet that.

The disappointment was physical.

Kayo came to stand beside him.

"It won't be time wasted." She nodded towards where a group of engineers were coming forward, men and women carrying tools and odd-looking boxes and containers. "They've cobbled together a scanner. No terellium," she added at Scott's quick look, "all done from old camera parts, old TV broadcasting equipment. The GDF sent out a call - not publicly, no-one knows who might be in touch with these assholes - just through trusted friends and family. Retired personnel, that kind of thing. And they think they've got something that works."

Scott ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to say something appreciative. He wanted to acknowledge the good thinking and hard work that had been done while he flew Agnes to here. But his heart held his mind, and all he could think of was a single image of Gordon and Virgil and their tired but cheerful faces as they waved him off from the research station four days ago, growing smaller and smaller in his sights as he spun up and away, getting lost in the whiteness, in the storm.

Every delay meant they were further from him.

The Lossiemouth engineers were waiting now, in front of him, waiting for some kind of word from the man who was asking them to trust their efforts were worthwhile.

"That's – that's great," he finally managed. "A scanner – that will make all the difference."

A few quick grins and nods.

"And we've got you a drop tank," said a young woman with Andreyovna on her name tag. Her thick Russian accent couldn't hide her pride in the announcement. "It will double your fuel capacity."

"Really?"

"Sure." She gestured to the closest women beside her. "We researched online. This will make such a difference."

"It really will." Scott found the gratitude, and Andreyovna looked pleased.

"You just kill these bastards, yes?"

"Uh – "

"Come on," and Kayo grabbed his arm. "Let's get you showered and fed properly. You've had a busy day."

"Are you patronising me?"

"Constantly."

"Okay. Yeah, okay." He let himself be led back to a jeep that would bring them to their quarters. Behind them they heard a series of clangs and bangs as the engineers swooped on Agnes. Scott looked over his shoulder.

"Be careful with her!"

A vague wave in his direction. The engineers were having too much fun.

"Scott, I know you're disappointed. But you've done a great job. Let these guys do what they can, and tomorrow you'll be able to search so much more effectively, for so much longer."

"Ah." Scott bent down to grab at his left calf, which was cramping painfully. "Ow. Yeah, I know you're right. I just – ow. Ow. Son of a –"

"You know Grandma Tracy's psychic, Scott. She'll hear that."

"Sorry, Grandma," Scott muttered. "Kayo – find me a masseur?"

She smiled, and swung behind the wheel of the jeep.

"You bet. And once we've got you de-pretzelled, you can tell me all about what it's like to fly a Spitfire, ace."

 **Notes:**

This chapter is one we had to have in order to get further along - it's as close as I can get to an accurate description of learning to fly a Spitfire. I am sure that I've fluffed it here and there, but if it conveys just how tricky it would be, and just how brave Scott is for tackling it, then that's as much as I can hope for.

I am indebted to Michael Veitch's 'Flak', particularly for his discussion of what it was really like in a Spitfire cockpit, Bruce Robertson's 'Spitfire: Story of a famous fighter' and Colin Rowe's great Youtube clip. Also to the various websites that held so much archival treasure.  
And for the Scots dialogue, my 75 year old neighbour, Annie. 'Toaty' is small, 'stoor' is dust, 'baws' is balls - 'simmer' means calm down, 'nae danger' means 'no worries', as we'd say, or perhaps 'no problem' in the US? Kippy-handed is left handed. 'Hen' is a term of endearment Annie uses all the time, and I love hearing it in her accent. Annie has been in Australia for many years, so the slang may be (probably is) out of date - but if so, I choose to believe there's a hipster-led retro slang revival in the 2060s!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10** **: The Clouds are Falling**

 **Notes:**

Thank you, amazing Soleil_Lumiere.

 **Chapter Text**

"Coming up on sector 12 now, John, height 1000 FT as per recommended search and speed parameters. Sweep width 40 kilometres. Continuing down-sun obs. I can see the Faroes ahead, bearing nor-north-east."

"Confirmed. How's the fuel?"

"Discarding drop tank now."

Scott didn't feel a kick as the tank was discarded beneath him, its job done. The loud hum of the plane, the occasional rattle of the hood, of intermittent squalls; below, the sea a mass of gray with stationary flecks of white and behind him and to his left, the massive, brooding bank of a storm that seemed to bleed across the sky from west to south, a blackened arm swinging around towards him in a slow motion punch. His world was reduced and expanded to this; the tiny cockpit and the vast, empty miles of sea and sky that stretched beyond his sight, into dark and light oblivion.

"How's the scanner doing?"

Scott gave a mental shrug as he glanced again at its blankness.

"I can only guess it's working. There's nothing down there to show up onscreen. The range isn't good enough to pick up Thunderbird Two –" a pause, a weakness, before he continued- "on the seabed. We'll need to modify if they want me to search deeper. Four could be down there and I wouldn't find it unless it was on the surface."

John's voice, sonorous and strong but stripped of nuance in the old fashioned RT communication, brought the required re-focusing.

"You're looking for the escape pod. The scanner should pick that up without any problem."

"I know. Don't mind me, I'm being – woah!"

"Scott?"

"Contact! I've got something! Definitely got something. About 20 klicks off the coast of the Faroes. Definitely a hit on something."

His pulse was pounding. Hope like sickness filled his belly.

"I'm –woo, I'm tipping Agnes, trying to get a visual. It's below me, directly below, I'm bringing her round…"

A single shift of the joystick and one wing dipped to bring the plane into a smooth, elegant arc. His pilot's soul noted the ease of it even as his eyes raked the sea, sighting and dismissing a hundred little peaks in the waves that could be the thing the scanner picked up.

"Do you have a size?" John's voice was careful to hide his excitement. Scott knew when he was reining it in.

"Hard to say – scanner definition is pretty limited. But it's getting clearer as I get lower – looks to be rectangular. Maybe three metres square?"

Possible. So, so possible. Right size, maybe the right place. He found his throat was tight, clutched in a dizzy embrace of need and a desperate fear of disappointment.

Agnes continued in her gentle spiral downwards as his gaze moved ever more intently between the waves and the scanner. The object grew in the screen even as it remained obscured in the sea amongst the whitecaps. Without a scanner, he never would have noticed it.

"I'm at 500 FT. No visual yet."

Another sweetly aligned turn – another 100 feet lost in height. Now the frozen sea of 1000 FT looked to be moving, heaving beneath him in long, slow rolls. And something appeared, even as something died in his heart. It took him several agonising seconds for his throat to unclench enough to pass the news on.

"It's red and yellow. I repeat, it's red and yellow. GDF issue."

Thunderbird Two's escape pod was orange.

Silence on the RT as John gathered his steadfast courage once again.

"Confirmed, Scott. GDF issue." Another pause, kind enough to cover the anguish, then his voice came back in. "That's probably Drago Kasun."

"Yes." He heard the dullness in his own voice, and cursed himself for it. "Yes. That's – uh, that's great news, if he's in there. Can you contact him at all?"

Another wait, as he circled the bobbing escape pod below him.

"Negative."

Scott frowned.

"Is that the EMF interference?"

"I'm not sure. I'll try to contact the nearest island."

That would be Mykine, a mountainous green shape at the end of the string of islands that made up the Faroe archipelago. It looked at this height close enough to reach out and grab the pod.

"Scott, I have Captain Djurhuus on the comms, so apparently the EMF has dissipated enough that ordinary radio contact can be made."

That boded ill for Drago – unless his comms were knocked out by the attack.

It occurred to Scott that if the young pilot had survived the attack he had been in the pod in the ocean for more than sixty hours now, with no way of contacting help and no way of steering his pod towards land. The escape pods were designed to do little more than attract attention from the undoubted search and rescue that would be immediately put in place once a plane went down, and then maintain life while waiting. He would have been envisaging the map and knowing that the chances of him washing ashore on the only land in this area- minuscule against the vastness of the water – were effectively non-existent. He must have been floating in there as one floating in his own coffin, and the pang that shot through Scott at that realisation was galvanising.

Virgil and Gordon might be thinking the exact same thing right now.

"Does the captain have an old enough boat? Can he get out to him?"

A pause while the question was relayed, and then a chuckle from John.

"He says his grandfather's fishing boat's a hundred years old – old enough for you? The motor's the newest thing on it, and that's about thirty."

"Pre-terellium," Scott breathed. "That's awesome. Tell him to get out here as fast as he can. I'll maintain visual."

"Tell him yourself. EOS has the frequencies aligned."

"Thank you. Captain Djurhuus?"

"Hej, hello. This is Mykine SAR. Captain Rókur Djurhuus here. You have a retrieval?"

"Scott Tracy of International Rescue here. Yes, I have a retrieval, an escape pod, in Search Area 1. I am circling the site now. Do you have visual?"

"I have you on scanner, International Rescue. SAR boat on standby. Will be on site in fifteen minutes."

"Negative, Captain. As explained to you, we want you to use the oldest boat you have. Nothing newer than twenty years."

"You want me to use my old fishing boat?"

The confusion in the captain's voice was clear, and understandable.

"Confirmed, Mykine SAR. Nothing with terellium can be allowed into the area. Repeat, nothing with terellium can be allowed into area."

"Understood." It wasn't, Scott knew that, but the captain had the precise and calm tone of a man well-used to acting upon directions in an emergency situation. Scott found himself nodding in recognition of a shared practicality. Details could be explained later; a person needed rescuing, and that was all that mattered. "Kom her, Rannvá. My wife, Captain Rannvá Torven, will take over SAR comms."

"Received and understood."

Scott brought his eyes up to the horizon and the steadily increasing storm clouds that were inexorably coming towards him and the helpless pod below.

"Captain, we need all speed."

"Ja. Weather alert is in place. Don't worry, Thunderbird, the Tor Friði will get out there in plenty of time."

Scott started at the use of 'Thunderbird'. Clearly, Rókur Djurhuus knew about International Rescue – not at all surprising, given their mutual fields of assisting those in need of help. But there was something in the Islander's voice that spoke of familiarity, and he racked his brain to think of a rescue in this area that might have seen them crossing paths.  
He watched as a small dot detached itself from the island and began traversing the sea, travelling all too slowly for his liking. Every now and then a spume of white burst upwards as the old boat hit a large wave and ploughed through it, and he realised that the little fishing boat was actually making fair speed through heavy seas.

"Uh – Scott?" John, sounding concerned enough that the emotion transcended the limitations of the radio. "That storm front to your left is travelling at some speed. You really need to leave the area as soon as you can."

"Negative, John. I'm here until Captain Djurhuus gets the escape pod. He's not in a SAR vessel, if he's relying on visibility -"

"Scott, his scanner will lock onto it. He said it's a fishing boat – it will have a fish scanner he can use."

Of course.

"Thanks, John. I didn't think of that. I'd like to stay until the pod is retrieved though. It looks like Captain Djurhuus will be reaching it in the next few minutes."

A sigh from space like the heavens were huffing at him.

"Understood. Once the escape pod's secure, you'll have to fly due east then south. The storm's coming up from the southwest – if you try to fly directly back to base you'll hit it. Or you could fly to the Vágar airport at Vatnsoyar. Wait it out? You know – take the safe option, for once?"

Scott grinned. "Where's the fun in that? No. I'll get back to base. They'll have a new drop tank for me."

Another long, slow turn, but this time, a gust of wind caught him as he banked slowly north, and he felt the Spitfire lift and drop at its whim.

"Hell!" He worked furiously to gain height, as another gust skidded him sideways.

"Scott?"

"Not now!"

It was the advance party of the storm, the air being forced out by the shift in pressure, and it brought into play a whole new sensation of skittishness unlike anything he'd experienced in flight before. Modern jets and rockets had automatic stabilisers that constantly read the air currents around the aircraft and adjusted before the vagaries of temperature and pressure could affect the line of flight in open air. Didn't help when flying low in difficult terrain, of course. And holding a plane stable in poor conditions still demanded effort and skill because inertia no longer helped stability, but inside Thunderbird One Scott never had any doubts as to his 'bird's capacity to maintain structural integrity. This? This felt like being in a tin can in a rapids.

He climbed back to 1,000 FT, with the occasional boost from an updraft that jolted Agnes alarmingly. By the time he got there and levelled into a much longer turning circle, the little fishing boat had converged upon the escape pod in the water, far sooner than his pessimistic reckonings had imagined.

"Captain Torven?"

"Ja?"

"Any word from Captain Djurhuus?"

"Stand by, please."

Stand by. Two of his least favourite words. The fishing boat just seemed to be alongside the pod. At this height, he couldn't make out the details of what was happening, and it was beyond frustrating.

"John, has he got him? Is he alive? John?"  
"Hold on, Scott – I think the captain has his hands full just now. I'll get EOS to patch you straight through to the boat, but you might need to hold on there."

Another delay, and in the pause Scott summoned up the bright young face of Drago Kasun, the pilot who knew as he did how to offer his own existence as ransom for friends and strangers alike. He remembered the humour, the lightness, the kind of bravery that needed no medals to shine in the darkest of times.

He wished.

"Scott, there's – "  
Interference, a kind of screech and garble, as another voice cut across his brother's.

"Scott Tracy? Bloody hell. It's really Scott Tracy?"

"Drago Kasun!" It was as if another updraft had caught him and lifted him another thousand feet into the air. "Welcome back! It's damn good to hear your voice. Decided you weren't ready to be a real spook, huh?"

"Scott Tracy! Did you get the bastards, then?"

"Uh, negative, Drago. Long story. Still ongoing. You are one lucky son-of-a-gun."

"Yeah. Wow. I really thought I – yeah, bugger that, we can chat later. I don't know what you're flying but you better head out of here. I'll buy you a beer when we get back."

"FAB. Tracy out."

He banked Agnes into a turn towards the east, and at once he felt the effect of the wind, hurtling him on his way ahead of the storm's path. It took all his concentration to bring her level and find his compass bearing. The lowering sun shot light beneath the bank of cloud to spotlight ahead of him even as he flew towards the evening's darkness. It would be a race to get home in daylight.

And as he eased the revs out, as he rejoiced in the speed and gutsiness of his little plane, he took an ill-judged second to wonder why he had signed off with FAB to Drago Kasun, a man he had only met once before. The answer was as swift as it was painful.

Because he reminded him of Virgil's looks. Because he reminded him of Gordon's spirit.

And for a second time, Scott experienced the bitter sweetness of bearing witness to a happy rescue that nonetheless scored his soul with a child's' insistent cries of, "Not fair!"

Enough.

There was a job to do, and he had a plane to fly in tricky conditions. Time to celebrate publicly and continue worrying privately when he got back.

He hit fifty kilometres east and turned southwards. For over half an hour there was nothing but sky, sea, and a Spitfire. A rescue behind him. On another day, he would call himself happy.

"Scott, you should be seeing a small island off to your right. That's Rona. Also known as North Rona, for reasons best known to the Scots. You need to start looping out south east now. That should give you a clear flight path back to base without connecting with the storm."

"Got it. Rona. Why is that familiar?"

John chuckled. "Took me a while to remember, too. I think you killed their lighthouse back in the Bereznik Emergency?"

Scott joined him in laughing. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. I think the Scottish Government put it that way in their bill. I was so mad with them I didn't even notice the wording until someone pointed it out to me."

"Let's face it, you don't expect a sense of humour from governments."

He passed the distant island, a long, mostly low land mass looking bright in the last rays of the soon to be swallowed sun.

"They ever fix that lighthouse?"

"I don't know. Want me to find out?"

"No, don't worry." Scott eyed the island as he flew by. "I could always buzz it and look for myself. I have time, don't I?"

"Uh – I would strongly recommend against that. Your fuel and the light – "

"Yeah, okay. I know. I'll be good. Have you told the GDF they've got their boy back yet?"

"Yes, I did. There are some very happy people waiting for you to get wheels down."

"I bet." Scott wriggled his shoulders, suddenly badly wanting to be back at base. The finding of Drago, joyous as it was, had obscured the other undeniable outcome of the day. There was no sign of the escape pod or Thunderbird Four south of the Faroes in the North Atlantic near the crash site. It was one thing to fly home to a warm welcome for an unexpected find; it was another to face the people who meant so much to him and tell them that he'd failed in the way it personally counted most.

He left Rona Island far to his rear, and headed on his lonely path south.

*** **** **** **** *****  
Kayo took the news of Drago's survival as if it was a charge of electricity to her innermost being. Something in the way her shoulders straightened told Scott all he needed to know. All of them were bowing beneath this pressure, the act of keeping grief at arm's length by sheer strength of will, but Kayo never stopped in her planning, her strategizing, her continuous focus on the 'what ifs'. It was both nature and duty, but neither could shield her from the emotional wear of hopes dashed and hurts received. Scott knew it, as a commander. He knew just how much she had needed this boost.

She stepped back from the hug she'd given him as he came back into their shared bedroom.

"I choose to see it as an omen. We gave up on Drago, and he survived. So will Virgil and Gordon."

"No one's giving up on Virgil and Gordon!" Grandma, from Tracy Island, looking older than she ever had but no less determined, with Alan next to her. John's avatar watched from beside them both, together but at this exact moment 4,000 kilometres apart. Penelope and Parker were waiting in the room with Kayo, meaning the tiny room was hopelessly crowded.

Scott nodded, finding a smile, tired but true.

"That's right, Grandma. We've just begun to search. Right, John?"

He expected a swift affirmation from John, but his brother refused to look up at him. Instead, there was a pause, just long enough to become ugly, before Alan jumped in.

"Damn right! No one can tell me this Dragon guy is better than International Rescue. I bet Gordon's kicking ass in Thunderbird Four, and Virgil's kicking his ass for not doing it the proper way."

Lady Penelope, seated in Colonel Massey's small armchair, looked downwards at her hands, folded and still in her lap, and said nothing.

It was up to Scott to pick up Alan's comments.

"Can you imagine? Those two cooped up together for days? Virgil will need a week-long meditation retreat just to recalibrate."

"Ha-ha. Yeah. You better believe it."

There was something in Alan's voice that made Scott look a little more closely at his youngest brother. Alan looked tired, but then, they all did. He had the extra strain of not being able to do anything directly to assist in the search and rescue, and Scott knew how that would play on him. And, of course, he was closest to Gordon. Scott wasn't any kind of therapist, and he didn't tend towards analysis beyond the needs of his family and the mission, but this one wasn't too hard to figure out. Maybe the thought of someone as young and carefree as he was disappearing – a euphemism, but he was exhausted, he'd take it- threatened Alan's ideas about the immortality that was the assumed birthright of the very young.

Scott couldn't even remember when his own youthful assumptions were burned away from him.

"You playing nice with Brains, Alan?"

"Oh, Brains. Man, that guy just doesn't know when to quit. He's back in his lab, doing his nerd stuff with one hand, barf bag in the other. I keep telling him to get some rest."

"You're doing a good job, Al. Not easy, waiting it out."

For just a second, two, the pep drained from Alan's face, and for that brief moment Scott saw his true state of mind.

Desperate.

His little brother was desperate, and it just about broke Scott's heart.

"But hey – Agnes is going great!" Hard work this, being cheer leader when all he wanted to do was flake out face first on the bed. He hadn't even stopped for a shower yet, his GDF flying suit sweaty and hot on his body. "Tomorrow I'm taking her up past the Faroes, into the Norwegian Sea. That's where they'll be. The current's gonna take them that way, and I've left the scanner with the tech guys here, see if they can't boost her to read at a greater depth."

"I know you're all doing everything you can," Grandma Tracy said, and it sounded like condescension. Scott resisted the urge to snap.

"You know it. John mentioned Vágar airport to me. You know, that's not a bad idea. I could fly out to there and base my operations from the Faroes."

"And how would you fuel the plane?" Lady Penelope, quiet and to the point, as ever. "There's no way to get fuel to the Faroes. Unless they have a supply they're not telling anyone about?"

"Oh." Scott scrubbed at his face, trying to relieve his fatigue. "I guess you're right. Just thought it might save some search time."

At last, John raised his eyes to look at Scott.

"We have to talk."

"Talk? Fine. About what?"

"About the search."

The hair rose on the back of Scott's neck.

"What about it?"

Before John could answer, there was a knock at the door. Kayo reached over to open it.

"Ah. Good. Everyone's here." It was Colonel Casey, who seemed to have shared Kayo's bolt of energy. She was smiling, and gestured broadly to an assistant behind her, who squeezed in carrying a basket of delicacies and wine. "Voted for by the Lossiemouth Social Club, in recognition of your outstanding efforts in finding our stray pilot."

"That's very kind of them. Please thank them for me." Scott saw the mouth, but read the eyes. His defensiveness hitched another notch higher.

"Will do." Casey ushered her assistant back out the door, and then closed it behind her. "You have made some friends for life here, Scott."

"That's nice." He narrowed his eyes. "What's going on?"

"Dispensing with pleasantries? Fair enough." She turned to face him. "After discussing the situation with the World Council, my superiors, and your brother, I've come to formally request that you shift your operations tomorrow into the North Sea."

Scott frowned. He caught the faces in front of him; Grandma and Alan knew nothing, neither did Kayo. Penelope was in on whatever this was.

And John –

"The North Sea? You think that's where my brothers have gone?"

Colonel Casey lifted an eyebrow.

"It's - possible. It's always possible."

"But that's all?" It was getting difficult to keep the sneer from his voice. "Then, forgive me, but I'll keep searching the North Atlantic."

"You misunderstand. We have decided that finding your brothers is no longer the first priority, or indeed the chief objective. Please – hear me out." This in response to the way Scott's face had twisted into a snarl and his hands into fists.

"I really don't think we have anything to discuss. My brothers are my first and only priority. Anything that doesn't accord with that can take a flying jump."

"Your brothers remain a priority, of course, but strategically going after them is not our best option."

"It's my best option!"

"Scott."

His voice low, his face full of pain, John's single use of his name brought his rage to a focal point.

"What, John? What? You agree with this?"

John closed his mouth firmly, for several seconds, before finally saying, "Yes, I do."

"I can't be hearing this." Scott raised both hands to his head. "I must be going crazy. Hey, sorry Grandma, guess we are giving up on our boys after all."

"Scott! Knock it off." There was anguish there, but Scott was in no mood to acknowledge it. "No one's giving up on them. But think about it. Just stop and think. How much of the search area can you really cover, by yourself?"

"I don't know! More than I would cover if, oh I don't know, I gave up and went looking for something else!"

"And what else would you be looking for? Huh?" So rare for John to be challenging him like this, but the rawness, the pain told Scott how far his brother had gone down this path alone. "Why do you think we're asking this?"

"The sub." It was Alan, looking stricken. "You want him to find the sub."

It took a full five seconds of silence for the idea to flow through his mind, setting off the pinball machine that constituted his operations mode.

"You want a search and destroy mission."

Colonel Casey inclined her head.

"We do. We think that your plane is the best chance we have of taking out the Regency's sub."

Scott finished the thought. "Allowing for a full scale search and rescue mission to be deployed once the threat is neutralised."

It made sense. It made perfect sense in every way but the one he wanted.

"That could take days," he countered. "I'm not leaving my brothers trapped in an escape pod or Thunderbird Four for one day longer than I have to."

"We may be able to help you narrow it down." Colonel Casey nodded to John, who took up the task again.

"The GDF has been sending drones repeatedly into the North Sea, each one entering from different directions. Based on the time and position of their destruction, I've calculated the weapon range on this thing to be about 40 klicks – and by triangulating each drone attack, I have a search area of not much more than 80 square kilometres. Given it is actually significantly closer to base than where you've been searching, that's eminently doable."

"Doable."

"Yes."

Lady Penelope made a small sound, and turned her head away. Kayo's eyes were wide, intense and upset but calculating the odds nonetheless. Grandma had one hand raised against her mouth. Alan – Alan's eyes were glistening.

"Alan?"

His kid brother made a kind of hand flap in an attempt to wave away the emotion everyone could see. "I guess I just thought you might – I kinda hoped – I thought maybe, tomorrow would be the day you'd…" He blew out his breath, wobbly. "No. But I mean, yeah. Cool, huh. That's – that's cool. You got bombs on Agnes?"

Scott quirked an eyebrow to Colonel Casey.

"As a matter of fact, we're fitting them right now. Only 100 kilos each, but they carry the new Corazon 12 explosives. Pack a hell of a charge, and perfect for depth work."

They were fitting them now. Scott never stood a chance.

He nodded, and turned to leave.

"Scott?"

"John, why don't you continue coordinating everything with Colonel Casey. You seem to have it all covered."

"Where are you going?"

Scott glanced at everyone in the room, and his smile was a bitter one.

"I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going to have a beer for Drago Kasun. By then I'm going to hope you've all cleared out and I can get some sleep. I've got a big day tomorrow, killing people. Oh, and thanks Colonel Casey, for reminding me why I left the military in the first place."

It wasn't satisfying, nothing about this brought him any kind of satisfaction, and later he would berate himself for leaving when Alan still needed to talk. But for now it was the best he could manage, and as he stepped into the shower and turned it on, full and hot, he lent his arms against the tiles, braced his legs, and put his head beneath the jets to let the thundering of the water cover the thundering of the storm, inside and out.

**** ***** ***** ****** *****  
The simple, but not obvious, truth was this; Scott had only twice before knowingly fired at a human being.

From the formation of the World Council in 2040 until the mid-2050s, no major wars occurred. Minor conflicts still happened, of course; as long as human beings could sharpen a length of wood into a spear, people would find ways of killing each other over the myriad reasons they'd found to do so in the past millennia. But in terms of nation versus nation, bloc versus bloc, the World Council found ways to negotiate and obfuscate and ingratiate and mediate, until disgruntled parties subsided and non-aggression pacts re-emerged, dented but intact.

That was until a genius and a nationalist sociopath combined forces in Bereznik, and the bombing of nearby cities and dams and ports recommenced.

The bombing was always done with drones, but drones with a sophistication decades beyond the rest of the world's capacities. Drones that could register and lock onto missiles sent to thwart them; drones with smart technology that allowed them to respond to the myriad ways the World Council and the GDF tried to defend against them, the AI directing each one capable of assessing threats and initiating strategies to a level at least equal and often superior to the best human pilots.

The carnage was horrific.

Until the World Council turned to squadrons like Scott's, equipped with jet fighters built to turn on a dime and pilots trained to fly by instinct, neural transmitters reacting to the flicker of a gaze in sending the craft into defensive spirals and attacking rolls. He and his comrades took to fighting the drones in mid-air, and winning enough that the terrible losses of pilots and machines somehow balanced the deadly books to the point that Bereznik sued for a ceasefire – but not before Bereznik sent up their own human fighters in a last ditch attempt to stave off defeat, and not before Scott twice fired his rockets at human flown planes only to see them hurtle, burning, into the ground so far below that the final burst of flame upon impact looked like a child's careless dot on a misty map.

For some, the anonymity of modern aerial warfare meant that rationalisation could disperse the nightmares; distance could wash their hands.

For Scott, the pain and the guilt and the revulsion at what he had been forced to do left him scarred and bitter. When his father reminded him of his altruistic plans for a rescue organisation, one that existed only to save others, it took several months before Scott didn't feel as if his presence in the planning room tainted everything his father was trying to achieve.

And now he was, knowingly and deliberately, heading out to do the same thing to another group of people.

That they were dangerous, fatally so, he would not deny. That their thinking was the worst kind of zealotry, and deeply misguided, again, was not something he would ever argue.  
But that they could be put to death for it – and that Scott would be the executioner – that, Scott resisted, even as he was strapped into his seat, even as the Coffman spluttered the Spitfire into life, even as he took off and flew north to where his brother John had neatly corralled them, ready for the axe they didn't know was coming.

In International Rescue there was an unspoken motto that each of them inscribed in their heart and lived by, daily. My life for theirs. No one spoke of self-sacrifice, or noble purpose, or greater good, yadda yadda. But that was the principle, the price, that each one of his brothers agreed to.

My life for theirs.

But not this time.

This time, it was your life for theirs. The unnamed people in the submarine somewhere below him in exchange for Virgil and Gordon, and it was John and Penelope and Colonel Casey who brokered that deal, Scott the enforcer who collected on its deadly terms.

He felt ill. Acknowledged that, dismissed it, as the nose came up and Agnes roared into the sky – for once, one without the intermittent rain that had bedevilled him yesterday.  
If he didn't analyse others, he was even less inclined to trawl through his own motivations, but even so the truth of it all was clear enough to him. He was ill not because of the thought of what he was about to do. He felt physically sick because he knew, reluctantly but profoundly, that he agreed with the strategy. Alternatives just didn't exist, and not taking this opportunity would condemn his brothers to die somewhere out in this infernal sea, this callous ocean. No: the bitter truth was he simply didn't want it to be him who saw it through.

Sanity, as defined by a single uninterrupted night's sleep or the ability not to shake at a sudden noise, was as hard-won as the truce. The Bereznik Emergency lasted less than twelve months. Scott's own battles lasted three years, and still flared after a particularly dangerous rescue. To go back to that dark place, to pick up the burden of five, ten, twenty souls in the submarine – that thought made him dry-mouthed, twisted in his guts, kept the hand on the throttle clenched hard to stop a preparatory shake.

But the alternative was also clear, and one he couldn't countenance. Who would take his place? A young pilot, idealistic, courageous, happy to risk his or her life in a rickety antique aircraft to rescue his brothers? A boy like Alan, a girl like Kayo, dragged into the shadow world of Scott's own trauma? Unthinkable. Unconscionable. And unnecessary, because Scott was here, and if the damage was still fresh, well, maybe that just meant he was qualified to cope with it.

The sea today was a patchwork, shifting blues and grays following the clouds above. Six days since John had contacted him with news that Thunderbird Two was missing, and for the first time, Scott's whole focus was not on finding his brothers. He checked the scanner and the fuel gauge, calculated distance and trajectory, and gave his soul over to the gods of war.

"Bearing nor-noreast. Coming up on designated area."

"Confirmed, Scott."

The scanner stayed dark. John's voice sounded impersonal, more distant than the reality of space and planetary position dictated. Scott had not forgiven him, because the hypocrisy of such an act was not in his nature; but the lack of confessional clarity between them meant that John was distant and Scott was alone. Perhaps it was good, in a way; perhaps the reminder that he was very much on his own was no bad thing in when going in to battle.

Scott moved his right hand over to the release levers for the two bombs he was carrying. He knew what the Corazon 12 could do. The latest of the pure fusion weapons, with negligible radiation and neutron damage but massive explosive force. A ten kilo bomb could release the energy of twenty tonnes of TNT; a 100 kilo bomb would lift a sub out of the water. All well and good; but the truth was, he'd never dropped a bomb in his life. Bomb aiming from a fast flying, manually controlled aircraft like a Spitfire was a learned skill, and he only had two chances to get it right before needing to return for re-arming. If he missed by a large margin and the sub escaped damage, they would likely run deep and silent as fast as they could out of the area. The chance to find them, to stop them, would be gone for now, and the delay could have terrible consequences for his lost brothers.

He'd fired grappling hooks forward of Thunderbird One when the computer targeting failed, he'd aimed and delivered climbing ropes and safety harnesses and magnetic clamps under all kinds of pressure and conditions. He could do this.

A banking turn as he began to quarter the area identified by John. Optimum search height at his speed of 220 knots was 1,000FT, but the scanner was now configured to give him a better depth range, and he could afford to take her up a little. He settled at 1200FT and dropped into cruise mode, every nerve straining for the moment when the scanner would come to life and show him what he half hoped, half dreaded to find.

That it happened on the first pass was astonishing.

"Uh – John? Are you getting this?"

Nothing but static. Under the invisible cloud of the lingering effects of the concentrated EMF use in this specific area, both the sub and his little Spitfire would pass undetected. He spared a thought for how John would feel, unable to see or hear what was happening. Now, Scott truly was alone, and he brought everything he had to focus on the shape in the scanner, a long, thin shape that shimmered in the low pixel density of his equipment but was clear enough to identify.

He brought Agnes up and around, keeping the shape in the centre of the scanner's screen, losing height in a series of sharper turns. At 400FT he could see it, maybe twenty feet below the surface, looking for all the world like a giant shark gliding along with deadly intent. Seeing it brought a flush of something like rage through Scott's body; this was the thing that brought down Thunderbird Two. This was the machine, this housed the people, who killed two pilots and imperilled 15 others, who almost took Drago Kasun's life.  
This was the monster who kept Grandma awake in silent terror, who put that look of desperation on Alan's face. Who took Gordon's happy laugh and Virgil's quiet smile away from him, from all of them.

"Come on, Agnes," he muttered, "come on, girl."

He didn't know if they would be watching for him – if they had scanning equipment immune to their own weapons' effects, if they were even now firing their anti-energy weapon at the blip on their radars, and wondering why he didn't just disappear as so many others had done. The thought of their puzzlement, maybe even alarm, gave him a second of satisfaction, before he brought the plane around to face north at 250FT and began his first bombing run.

He knew he would have to bring her up fast the moment he released the bombs. He knew he had to imagine the trajectory, allow for the speed of his plane versus the weight of the bomb. The wings wobbled a little, responding to the unsettled air above the waves. He knew he only had two complete attempts at this.

At this speed and height he closed on the sub so fast that before he could react he'd blown the first run. Abysmally.

He roared over the spot, past the sub seconds faster than he was prepared to be.

"Shit!" He pulled the stick back, lifting her up and over and swinging away to his right, an unexpected burst of sunlight glinting on the hood before disappearing again as he flattened her out. He overshot by a full kilometre before looping back and around for the second pass.

This time he doubled his height before settling in for the bombing run.

It made it easier to keep her level, and gave him a few seconds' extra time as he approached the target. But still the spot in his targeting sights sped towards him, and still his hand twitched on the release, the rush and bump of the craft and the burr of the engine bringing urgency and the edge of control-loss to him.

The lines converged – and passed.

A second overshoot.

"Dammit!" Another long swing around, another revving of the engines as he banked right. "Okay, you idiot. Enough fooling around. You've got this."

The sub begin to change direction.

They were aware of him. They may have been attacking him, to no effect. But they were definitely shifting their heading and beginning to dive.

He tipped downwards, dropping height again to bore in at an angle, too fast to think, all instinct. His hand triggered the release before he had time to register the fact, and then he was wrenching the joystick back, back and the engines were roaring as he headed almost straight up.

The explosion, when it came, felt like a kick in the backside by a giant, ornery mule. The Spitfire's tail swung out and the whole body of his plane lifted upwards and sideways. He risked a quick look; the site was a massive, churning cauldron of white, and even in the few seconds he watched, he saw the black shape of the sub suddenly burst onto the surface.

Struggling, he brought the nose of the Spitfire down, breaking her wayward climb. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he reached up to wipe nervous sweat from his eyes. Each breath was harsh, echoing in his headset, the kind of tell that gave away exactly how much this was costing him. He blew one out, hard, and took in a deeper one as he swung southwards to assess what he'd done.

And met cruel disappointment.

The submarine was intact.

Well to the side of the boiling, bubbling water, the sub looked sleek and black and deadly. Judging by its position now, he'd missed it by a hundred metres.

He let his head drop back, teeth grinding. When someone was depending on him, he could find the strength to hide chagrin, fiercely quell self-disgust and doubt. But alone, with everything depending on him and only his own inadequacies in play, it was all too easy to let his fear and exhaustion ride his mood.

"Come on, come on, come on! God, Scooter, get in the game!"

Had to do better.

He circled south before turning north, pushing the plane as fast as she'd go, bringing her back for the final run. Dropped low again, but not as low as the last time, and as he came in straightened her, kept her level and steady, watching the targeting lines converge.

And then, shockingly, something hit him.

Something punched him, hard, in the shoulder, hard enough to set him back against the metal.

Nothing hurt – there was just incomprehension.

Something had punched him.

And then he was aware of rushing air, screeching through the undercarriage, and he realised there was a hole in the floor of the cockpit, jagged, bewildering. The sea, hundreds of metres below, appeared in the gap in the metal, and his eye was taken by the sight of it, and by his leg right above it, soaked in deepest red.

"Oh."

Without thinking he pulled the plane's nose up, away from the punching, and another thump cannoned into the rear undercarriage.

Rallying his brain through the nothingness that invaded it was hard, but it happened, with abrupt clarity.

They were firing at him. The plane was damaged. He was damaged. The smell of hot oil filled the cockpit. The smell of blood.

He looked at his fuel gauge. Steady. The fuel tanks weren't hit. Brakes – he tried to work the brake lever, but his right hand didn't want to work, wouldn't leave the stick.

Oh. Shoulder, right.

A dropping of his eyes down to his chest, and he saw his flying suit top as soaked as his pants leg.

Oh.

So - wounded. Badly. Sub still intact. One failed pass completed, one bomb left.

The thoughts were staccato, black and red flashes across his mind, without emotion or context, barely holding meaning.

Check the gauge – nothing. No brakes.

And now, the pain, great shuddering waves of it, leaving him gasping, incapable. Didn't want to make a noise, didn't want to start to spiral into the scream that lay waiting for him at the base of his spine, his belly.

Somehow, he pushed the stick forward, brought her nose down to the level again.

He wasn't sure of his direction. Lost it. Lost the submarine. Lost everything. Everything.

No – no, he knew where the sun was. Behind him, and he was heading north. Blew his bombing run. Blew a hole in the plane. In him. Two holes.

He needed to get her back, get himself back. He promised the old man. Break off now and get home. Swing out wide, wide, away from whatever weapon they had down there. Dip the nose down lower and there, bristling on the top of the submarine, the spiked silhouette of guns swivelling to follow him. But if he gained height and went wide, he'd be safe, safe from those guns, he'd get home.

The thought came and went, dying without regret.

Couldn't leave Virgil. Couldn't leave Gordon.

Have to bring her back to come up from the south with the sun – but it was hard, so hard, to think and to do. Just – just turn around. Just straight over the top from the north, down low. They would shoot at him, they would tear him apart, but he had one more bomb and he could do this, could stop them, could make it count.

Ohh, but it was all slipping away from him, as if his body was sliding through that gaping hole, sliding down and down to the ice cold sea below, following the blood dropping steadily to the floor of the cockpit to mingle with the oil.

He needed…

"Five. John? John, Johnny, come in."

The sound of space in his ears, its seething rattle.

"Okay, John, maybe you can hear me. You can… can you? Just … coming in on final run, only one left, only one. John? You…"

The words – oh, no words, nothing that made any sense anymore. Just a feeling, a deep and sad emotion that was already following the blood, getting more and more distant, falling away.

Forget John, and comfort. None to be had. This was his task now. This was the only thing he had to do.

He banked south, into the sun.

With the nose down, he could see the guns come around to meet him. Light, pulses of it, and another bang in the tail. More light, but none of it mattered. He'd aim her like a missile if he had to, straight for the midsection of that vicious thing ahead of him, trust to momentum and inertia to get the job done. A promise to one man broken, promises born in his bones and shared blood kept.

Faster. Faster. Shrieking of the engines, banging of the cockpit floor and metal coming away, oil spraying upwards, but the tangents were closing, the target looming large in the windshield. Waiting, waiting, and there – there, it was gone, and he knew it was good. Almost too much, pulling back the stick, and the long, low swoop over the top of the sub was completely unplanned.

This time, the blast bucked underneath him and he rolled off it, letting the movement bring the plane in an arcing turn over the greening sea. The angle let him look, and he could see it, the result of his last effort, his last blow in the fight for his brothers.

The sub's back was broken. The line was all wrong, and the sea bubbled but this time it was streaked and gray with the black of oil.

More of him slid away, and this time there was nothing to hold onto it for.

The sub was finished, as a weapon. It couldn't submerge; he knew it, to a certainty. He didn't know if that meant they were beaten. It did mean the odds had shifted. This craft below needed major repairs to be functional, and there was no port within reach that they could seek with impunity. Chances were the next communication would be a call for help.

And maybe – maybe they had all survived to ask for it.

Something else left him, slipping down into the gap in the fuselage. Some other piece of him, some deep sinew tying him to the Earth.

It was getting easier to go.

Somewhere up above him, beyond the blue, John was planning and watching and listening.

Somewhere down below, Gordon and Virgil were waiting.

Somewhere over the horizon, Alan. Grandma.

So much effort to conjure them all, and somehow they all got mixed up, until it was Gordon's sorrow he remembered, Virgil's rare sharpness, Alan's petulance, John's pain. It wasn't what he wanted, how he wanted to capture them, but the world of his cockpit had opened up in the most fundamentally terminal way, and as it broke it took all the best of them, his brothers, his grandmother, his sister by choice.

Ahead was a dull gray line that spoke of coastline. He wanted, so badly, to bring Agnes home. She'd done everything asked of her, gallant and game, and he owed her more than this sodden death. But he wouldn't risk bringing her down anywhere his or her current status would threaten civilians. If he made it to Lossie, he would give it his all; but if he couldn't reach that, then the sea would take them, and he'd find Virgil and Gordon there. Where they'd been all along, while he tried so hard and so uselessly to resurrect them. He could admit that now.

"Scott? Come in. Come in, Scott."

Out from under the EMF cloud, but too late. John, you're too late.

"Scott? Can you hear me? Scott?"

The land was clear now. He could see individual houses. The lighthouse. Didn't he kill the lighthouse?

"Scott, it may be that your transmitter is down, but I'm guessing you can hear me? Are you okay? Can you tap on your headset, one for yes, two for no?"

"John."

Almost all he could manage, and it was enough. The change in John's tone was comical. A pause, and then, an impossible deepening.

"Scott, you're hurt."

"Yes."

And John didn't miss a beat, because he was just that good at what he did.

"I'm contacting Lossiemouth. They'll have all emergency response units on standby. You need to correct your course slightly, veer starboard, 15 degrees."

"Yes." A whisper, from far away.

"Scott, you're doing great. Just keep that course, you'll be over the base in two minutes. Two minutes, Scott, you can begin to drop revs."

"Yes."

"Good, good. That's great." John, so far away, with the whispers. "Scott, Scotty, you're with me, you're doing so well."

Too much of him gone through the fuselage. Nothing left to say goodbye.

"Scott, I'm right there. I'm right there with you. I'm gonna help you bring her home. Bring Agnes home, right? You help me bring her home."

Drop the revs. He said, drop the revs. John, here with him. Infinitely slow, infinitely painful, as he reached forward, as he closed the throttle down.

She was falling, Agnes, and he was falling with her.

"Look, Scott, you can see the lights, see the runway. Come on. Let's bring her down. Easy as you can, easy."

An afternoon, sun slanting through farmhouse windows. Kansas, and Virgil, so small, such big dark eyes, troubled and holding up a book, looking for help.  
"It says the clouds are always falling. All the time. Even big fluffy ones. Culminating clouds. How can the clouds be falling, Scott?"

Because everything falls in the end, he should have said. Everything falls.

"Scott – they're saying you have to bring the nose up. Bring the nose up, Scott. Scott! Oh, god, please, please, Scotty, bring it up, bring the nose up –"  
And that was all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11** **: The Last Time**

 **Notes:**

Thanks again S-L, you deadset legend.

 **Chapter Text**

"I got to see Alan. Did I mention that before? Came down on the elevator, of course, so I was able to get around to the front of the house without going inside. We waved at each other through the glass. Could see him, couldn't touch. Not so different from being up on Five, in a way.

"You know, it occurred to me, as we were talking to each other through the comms – kind of strange, I guess, being no more than ten feet apart but using the comms like that – but I couldn't help but think, this is who we are now. Just the two of us. Used to be we each had four brothers, now we've each got one.

"That's – that shifts a man's worldview.

"The kid looked like he could use something. Pep talk, perhaps. Just a break from the island, maybe. Or – I guess I can tell you. In a way, I was grateful for the glass. Because I think what he wanted was a high five or a hug or something, and just now… just now, if he hugged me, I think I'd…

"Yeah. Sorry. My mind's not particularly focused. I've been in here – okay, 38 hours now.

"So, anyway. One brother each. That's what I was thinking. I guess that's why Dad always said you were the optimist, I was the pessimist. I disagreed with Dad about a lot of things, you know. Didn't always tell him, didn't see the point, but that was one of those things. It fundamentally short-changes the optimism levels you display and mischaracterizes me. I'm practical, not pessimistic. Practical is good.

"I mean, think of Gordon. Gordon could only ever see one outcome – you know, I remember explaining to him that there was a real, mathematically provable possibility that riding the sled off the roof would probably result in damage, and he looked at me as if I was speaking some kind of foreign language. Even when he did break the tiles and crack his collarbone, it came to him as a complete surprise. Whereas I imagine a hundred scenarios, and that means that some of them are bound to be less than successful, and I'm aware of that. I'm cautious. That's a good thing.

"While you – god, Scott, I don't know anyone else who has your levels of optimism. Or maybe not optimism, maybe the word is foolhardiness. Always where you're concerned, of course, never for the rest of us. With the rest of us you out-grandma Grandma.

"Although, you know, saying an old woman is particularly fussy is pretty sexist. I know a lot of old women who could knock my socks off, in terms of both brains and courage. Guess I'll apologise to Grandma when I see her…

"I think I'm rambling.

"I think I'm tired.

"It's late. Early. I mean early. Uh – actually, it's 0600 hours. Hard to tell the time in here. These rooms are well worth the money, it's so quiet, but I can just hear the night staff going off duty. You've been here for two nights now, in case you were wondering.

"I always forget how uncoordinated I am after being in zero gravity. I have to tell you, flying Tracy One was a nightmare, big time. I did the saline drip when I got to the island, and that helped my blood pressure. Otherwise, I think I would have passed out halfway across the ocean. But oh boy, my – hell, my everything. Bones. You know you urinate out your own bones in the first month of space travel? It's been a long stretch, and we keep meaning to rotate better, but I haven't been down in almost four months, so I guess I've lost 20 percent of my bone density. Right now there are droplets of my bones floating across the galaxy. Virgil would like that image. He'd put it to music.

"And muscles, I work hard on them but the lack of resistance – well, you know. It feels like I did that time you and me drank the whole of Grandma's eggnog. Remember? We thought it was a cinnamon milkshake. And then we couldn't walk in a straight line out of the room, and we were looking at each other like some kind of alien death-ray had caught us in the kitchen. What kind of magic is this? Remember? We must have been about seven or eight. Damn, that woman always had a heavy hand with the brandy.

"She looks – she looks old. For the first time, I looked at her and thought yeah, of course, she's old…

"I got them to shift in one of those therapeutic chairs. I'm getting all kinds of massaged as we speak. Money. I threw around Dad's money, and I have to tell you, you got the best it could buy. You've got that new healing gel in those wounds of yours. And on your burns. You know it lets the nerves and veins and skin just grow right through it? Incredible stuff. I think that friend of mine, Leto Canavale, you remember I told you about him? The one with the telescope, we use to climb up on top of City Hall at 3am in the morning – oh, hell, I hate that, if it's 3am of course it's the morning… what was I saying? Oh, yes, Leto. His dad had security keys for Cambridge City Hall and we… I think he was on the team at Johns Hopkins that developed it. Kind of funny, when you think about it. Well, not funny, I guess, more…

"If you think my voice is croaky, you should have heard Kayo's. She was talking to you for about twenty hours straight. And if you're wondering why you haven't heard her for a while, I sent her to a spare cot down the hall about – uh, hang on – about twelve hours ago? She said she'd come back and relieve me. I think maybe she came in a few hours back and said something, but I might have been dozing. I kinda thought she'd be back by now. But you know I'm not leaving. I'm right here, Scotty."

The door opened, and John blinked up to awareness of another world beyond the bed by his side and the brother immobile within it.

The woman who entered was one he'd only ever seen with squared shoulders and high-held head. They looked that way as she was framed briefly in the corridor's light, her jaw jutting in command, her body held tight and hard and sure. But once she entered, he caught the slight head drop, saw the shoulders' infinitesimal sag. Anyone who didn't know her would never see it, but to John, it was as revealing as if she'd thrown off her shirt.

"John. I was told you were here. How is he?"

It was hard to look at her, because reporting the situational status was his job, and all of this had ceased to be duty and become a futile crusade days ago.

He never shifted his hand from where it held Scott's, over the bandages and the prosthetic skin.

"Broken pelvis. Broken ribs. Broken nose. Burns to his hands and face. Shrapnel wounds to his shoulder and thigh." Ritual, this, running over the facts so that decisions could be made, but it felt wrong and off key and ultimately pointless. "Fractured skull."

She nodded, slowly.

"Is he going to recover?"

Trust her to cut to the point. To cut to the bone.

"He's in a coma. Subdural hematoma. No one's being definitive."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I meant to come by sooner, but the situation is ongoing and unstable."

She came to stand by the bed. A hand reached out and hovered over his brother's chest.

"In all my years of service, I've never…"

Her mouth tightened. This was a woman beyond the edge of exhaustion, John realised. This was a woman harrowed raw to the deepest soil of her soul.

"He should never have been able to bring that plane in. You know, he nearly managed to land it outright, despite the damage. I thought he'd done it out of sheer ability, but then when they pulled him out and found the flak wounds... that is beyond my capacity to comprehend."

She looked up at him then, a smile so worn it looked like a rut in her face.

"But that is what you do, isn't it? International Rescue. Whenever I need the impossible, I call on you. And you and your brothers, you've never let me down."

"Colonel – "

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm over-tired. Should have signed out a day ago, but these situations have a way of escalating. And it doesn't change the fact that when you needed me, when your own was in danger, I let you down."

John shifted, trying to ease the bone-grinding ache of Earth.

"Colonel, there's nothing you could have done."

"Really? Because he found a way. He found a way to get out there and look for his brothers, and somewhere along the way I hijacked that into a search and destroy mission. And if you were to ask me, I would have to say I cannot regret that decision, but I can regret the cost. May I sit down?"

Tiredness slowed John's response, until he realised something was needed from hm.

"Of course. Forgive me for not getting your chair. "

"That's quite alright. I'm sure you're struggling. Post-weightlessness – I'm amazed you're upright, to be honest."

"I don't think I am."

A hum of acknowledgment, as she folded into the chair in a way that told John she had not sat down in hours. Maybe days.

They sat in the gradually lightening darkness, the meters connected to Scott the only noise in the room. He laid still and silent on the gel bed, the one that was warm and pulsating to keep his body functioning as best it could.

John stared unseeingly at his brother's swollen face. Time sanded his eyes, knuckled his shoulders, bore him down into the floor. Somewhere in his mind he knew he should say something, but his voice was gone with the recitation of his brother's condition, and it felt as though Colonel Casey was draining the last ergs of energy from him just by her need for forgiveness.

"John, I have an update for you."

"Yes. Right. Of course." Blinking back to focus, John raised his eyes to her. "Should I call Kayo to hear this? She's on a cot down the hall."

Colonel Casey looked at him strangely. "Kayo's not here, John. She's in New York."

Another blink. He heard the words, but they made no sense. The colonel saw his confusion – how could she not? – and spoke slowly and carefully to him, as if he was a child. As if he was hurt.

"A second submarine appeared off New York harbour yesterday. It brought down a commercial jet as it began its approach to JFK airport. Luckily, the pilot was brilliant enough to land the craft rather than crash it, but she couldn't spare the passengers injury. The Rogalian Regency subsequently contacted the World Council and declared they have three other subs, just waiting orders to fire, and that all flights across the world should be immediately cancelled."

"What did the council do?"

"Banned all flights worldwide, of course. Until we can ascertain the existence or otherwise of these other subs and eliminate the possibility of threat, it's all they can do. As we speak, there is no approved flight anywhere."

"So why - ?"

"Why did Kayo fly to New York? Because her aircraft has the best stealth ability to avoid Rogalian detection, and because we think that Scott may have succeeded. Kayo flew over there via South America to convince them to raise a squadron of Spitfires or crop-dusters or biplanes, if she has to."

"Scott – " It was too much information for his exhausted mind to process. Colonel Casey found a smile, a better one, and the energy to lean forward slightly.

"The drones we're sending out are coming back, and they've been sending scans from all around the sites of contact. Nothing has been shot down in the North Sea for 24 hours."

"Then – then –"

"Scott had already dropped both bombs when he crashed. He wouldn't have survived, otherwise. He wasn't able to communicate with us while he was in the cloud, but it seems as though he just might have done it. After all, if anyone could, it is your brother."

It was stupendous news, and under other circumstances, John would be beyond excited. As it was, it felt like the story had lumbered callously over him and his brothers, a juggernaut leaving them broken and scattered far behind in its wake.

"So you're searching now? For the sub. For my brothers?"

She gave him another hard to read look.

"John, all flights are grounded. We cannot risk the Rogalians firing at a city as they did at London. If they were to extend that EMF effect over New York, hundreds of people would be at immediate risk."

"Oh." His mind tried to grapple with all the implications. "So you think Scott's tactic worked, and that Brains' theory is right. You think that finding more old planes and attacking the submarines with them will be the way to bring this madness to an end."

"Yes."

"But you're not going to go against the council ruling and look for my brothers."

"And risk an attack on New York? No." She stared directly at him. "Until we hear that this second sub is neutralised, and no other exist, my hands are tied. But my years of command lead me to believe both will be accomplished sooner rather than later."

"You think they're bluffing?"

"I do."

"But…"

"As I said. My hands are tied." She got up, slowly, and came around to his side of the bed, where she leant forward and briefly took John's other hand in both of hers. "My hands, John."

Then she gave his hand a squeeze, and she was telling him something, even as she left, no doubt heading back to her command post at the base.

The room was so much quieter once she was gone.

John sat back in the gently massaging chair, thinking. It was eight days since he'd called out into the atmosphere and heard his question die there. Are you receiving me. Thunderbird Two, are you there? Eight days since the first premonition chilled him, since the terror began swirling in his belly. It was six days since the last of his hope died.  
Was there any point in going on searching? Death must have got up out of his seat to welcome Scott a hundred times only to sit back down, but his brother was shaking hands with him right now. Wasn't he?

Maybe John was a pessimist after all. Because he'd flown over here to watch Scott die. He knew he was dead as he climbed into Tracy One. Knew it as he flew over the Pacific, across the sub-continent, across Europe. Knew it as he landed, and wobbled down to the tarmac at Lossiemouth Base. The ground crew guy came over to him, the welcoming committee of one, and John had put words to it, to the dread that simply constituted his being now.

And the ground crew guy said, no, he's hanging on.

He was already light-headed and clumsy with Earth-sickness. Hearing the news about Scott sent his senses spinning again.

So he'd found Scott's bed, and held Scott's swollen and bandaged hand, and tried to figure out when he'd become such a coward that he'd summoned certainty to smother hope.  
He tapped on his comm.

"EOS. It seems the EMF cloud has dissipated, and no new weapon usage has been detected for some time. Run a scan for Virgil and Gordon's GPS trackers. Start south of the Faroe Islands, continue north into the Norwegian Sea. Then try east, into –"

'John, I have located Gordon Tracy's GPS tracker for you.'

What.

Gordon's –

What?

A thump in his throat. Huge. That would be his heart. Still beating after all.

"Say again, EOS."

'I have located Gordon Tracy's GPS tracker from his watch. It's continuing to function.'

He'd never been alive before this second. Astonishing, how his muddled mind cleared.

"Where?"

'One point seven kilometres east of Rona Island, in the North Sea.'

"The escape pod?"

'Negative.'

"Thunderbird Four!"

A pause. Too long.

'I have found Thunderbird Four. It is two point one kilometres from Gordon Tracy's position.'

John realised he was sitting up, his hands clenching and un-clenching, a phantom grab to reach and hold the little brother he thought had gone.

"What about Virgil? Can you find his tracker?"

'Negative.'

"So – Gordon's out of his Thunderbird and there's no sign of Virgil?"

'That is correct.'

He was so light headed now he had to grip the sides of the chair, but that was because his reckless heart was galloping so fast his brain couldn't keep up.

"Gordon - Gordon, he must be swimming. He – is there - can you identify the direction he's traveling?"

'East.'

"Away from the island."

'Yes. That doesn't make sense, does it John?'

"No, it doesn't." He frowned, tried to breathe. "EOS, can you scan for the Rogalian sub?"

'It is stationary one point six kilometres from Gordon Tracy.'

John got up, unable to stay still any longer. His bones ached and his head pounded, but he ignored both as he began to pace, awkwardly, about Scott's room. To the door, the wardrobe, the wall screen. To Scott's bed. The chair. The medical trolley.

To the window, where the false dawn lingered.

"Why would he leave Thunderbird Four? Maybe Virgil's in Four, without his GPS and watch."

'I am detecting no life signs in Thunderbird Four. The engine is not functioning.'

"So Gordon may have left that to get to the island."

'The GPS is traveling east, away from the island.'

John lingered by the window, thinking furiously.

"Because the sub is there? Gordon's just crazy enough to try to attack the thing himself. Maybe he's coming around from behind it?"

'John – '

"Perhaps Virgil's already on the island. EOS, are there life signs on the Island?"

'Yes, John. Seven.'

"Seven?" That didn't make sense.

Until it did.

"It's the Rogalians on the island, isn't it."

'John, I have managed to access Thunderbird Four's control bank. The craft has not been operational for 154 hours. It is currently at a depth of 61 metres.'

There. Right there. That was why practicality trumped optimism every time, because practical thinking didn't shred every fibre of your body when it turned out to be wrong.

Gordon was in the water and floating because his IR suit had an inbuilt flotation component to it. Gordon could go on doing just that for weeks or months or years, and it wouldn't mean a damned thing.

Such a coward. The first question he should have asked, and it took him this long to ask it.

"EOS. Is the tracker showing any life readings?"

'I'm sorry, John. I can't answer that.'

He swallowed. Nausea, belief, whatever it was that was rising in his throat to poison him.

"What do you mean?"

'The signal is very weak. If there are life signs, they are not strong enough to detect.'

Gordon's body was floating because of his suit. Probably had been floating around the island for 154 hours. Virgil's body had sunk to the seafloor.

There it was.

He lowered his head, because his muscles and bones were tired and it made sense to bow his head to rest them. Made sense to let tears flow because they were going to flow for the rest of his life, may as well begin as he meant to go on.

Scott was dying. Virgil and Gordon were dead. He was someone who understood astronomy as another person would understand daylight – incontrovertible, inarguable, a fact like stone. And yet, he was prepared to argue, forever, that now the world was turned upside down. And if anyone ever told him that was impossible, that there is no down in space, he would just turn to them and say, you're wrong. Because I've lived it.

The moon was still there, dragging the tides, sparkling the water. The sun was still the centre of the solar system. Neither of them would find Virgil. He was lost somewhere, in the deep, and that was a hurt that would never heal. But Gordon – Gordon would float beneath both, and maybe as the suit disintegrated and his flesh disengaged, whatever it was that made that extraordinary spirit what it was would spread out too, would join the ocean he loved along with the body that delighted so much in it.

There was no comfort in the thought, but maybe a kind of rightness.

Except.

Except for his own practicality.

That body wouldn't float peacefully amongst the waves until nature reclaimed it. It would be torn apart by propellers, churned into chum by sharks and gulls, covered in oil and sewerage.

Gordon, with that smile, that laugh, that defied everything life threw at him, reduced to flotsam at the mercy of the tainted sea.

Scott would never stand for it. He'd bring his brother home.

The first true flush of sunrise gilded the window, goldened his hands as they rested on the sill.

He blew out his breath.

Damn him.

Damn him and his fucking practicality.

Damn him for the caution that covered cowardice, the sense that hid despair.

EOS had found his brother. So would he.

"EOS. I'm taking up Thunderbird One."

'John, are you sure? Your vital signs are very poor. I told you you went down too fast.'

"Yes, I'm sure. Start up the pre-flight procedure, would you? I have to get from here back to Lossiemouth, and then out to One without being detected."

'I could help you there, John.'

"How?"

'I could give them an emergency on that wall map of theirs. It would be easy.'

John frowned.

"Nothing that would put anyone in danger."

'Of course not. But something that would distract them.'

"Alright. Yes, alright, EOS. Something that will keep them looking the other way until I'm in the air. I don't think they'd try to intercept me, and I don't think they've got anything that could, anyway. I just have to get on board. In the meantime, get me Lady Penelope, would you? I'm going to need a lift."

There was one important truth about John that most people didn't understand. Scott and Alan found anger easily, it was close to the surface and there with a scratch. Virgil's anger was slow and cold, lava cooling underneath, harder to get at and harder to stop when you did. Gordon's was spark-like, quick and bright and hot then gone, although woe betide you if you tapped into that other, hidden anger he shared with Virgil, that deep and cold one.

But people thought John didn't get angry. Under provocation, he kept his voice calm, he never shouted, his face didn't get red. What they didn't understand was that John's anger was the biggest of all, and it swirled at the molten heart of him. Everyday cruelty kept him incandescent, and it was his mother who finally took him aside and taught him how to manage that fury, how to picture it as his core and use it as fuel to study and strive and achieve without letting it volcano over everyone and everything as he so often wanted. Serenity was an armour forged of pure will, pure self-discipline, and it hid a rage that would consume the brutal world if he let it.

And that rage could energise a man who was so far beyond his physical and mental limits that he should simply be lying foetally somewhere, letting gravity swallow him. It could be the furnace that allowed him to stand, and lean over his brother, and kiss him goodbye, without faltering.

His rage burned against the Rogalians, against the vicissitudes of life, the military, the angles of descent that meant injury for some, death for others.

Most of all, his anger scorched himself and his inability to keep watch over his brothers, and keep faith in them when that same watch failed.

"I'll bring him home, Scotty. You just have to hold on until I do." It felt awkward and wrong, and in another life, he'd reject it outright, but he persisted for the sake of Alan, the last brother who might hear it. "Thunderbirds are go."

It carried him out of Edinburgh General Hospital, out into a cold, sharp morning, where he stood on the curb waiting for a ridiculous car that would take him to the finest plane on the planet, and the last time International Rescue would ever undertake a mission to find the lost.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12** **: Brothers**

 **Notes:**

I am in a situation that doesn't allow me much internet connection at all, so I am grabbing this brief window of time to post this. I wanted to put this out there before Christmas.  
Thank you to all the lovely people who are reading this. I apologise for not responding to feedback for a little while - I am literally taking the five minutes of wifi I have here to post.  
Because of my difficult situation, my amazing beta-extraordinaire Soleil-Lumiere has not been able to give this final version a look-over. More than ever, all flaws are mine. I can't tell you how much she has improved this from the first draft.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

Gordon was so light.

They said that would happen, after that experimental operation, after all the pain and trauma. Twenty percent less? Twenty five percent? Gordon's bones were replaced with stuff so strong and light that he joked he could really walk on water now. By contrast, Virgil was heavy, and he floated low in the waves so that water came between him and Gordon, a chasm of coldness. It was getting harder and harder to bring his body upwards so that they floated together, but that was his task, his labour of love, and he would do it until it was time for Gordon to float on alone and Virgil to sink for the last time.

Again, he gripped tighter and kept their heads above the waves. Gordon's lolled against his shoulder, the blond hair dark with water, and Virgil told him about the colour of the sea, about how hard he found it to capture all its shifting moods, that water was so tricky because there really wasn't any colour there at all, just light, and maybe Caravaggio could capture light but he was darned if he, Virgil Tracy, could find a way to do it when it changed as you watched.

The seawater kept slapping onto his helmet, cold and salt and death crashing at that barrier as he spoke. Something told him to keep talking, that his voice was anchoring Gordon to him, that if he stopped that light would take his brother and he wouldn't be able to hold on tight enough, but the seawater was relentless and he felt its energy dragging him down.

So when he couldn't talk anymore, he gave the only thing he had left.

He started to hum.

Gordon had always been a sucker for music. He was the best dancer of them all, because he just gave his body over to it, just as he gave his body to the waves. Virgil was always on the piano or sorting through the audio files, so somewhere he'd never picked up much in the way of moves.

But whenever Gordon was too wound up to settle down, music was the one thing he always responded to. So now Virgil hummed. Old songs from Kansas. Songs their grandfather taught them, songs from the local radio, songs that Virgil heard Gordon, dressed in something ridiculous, his face full of joy, yell out as he danced by the poolside. Every so often Gordon gripped the arm across his chest to let Virgil know he remembered this one. That hadn't happened for some time. Or maybe it had and Virgil couldn't feel it. And what the hell, time didn't mean anything. Time was just the waves, the Earth's metronome, eternal and implacable, and he and Gordon were riding time until time didn't need them anymore.

The sea lifted and fell, and they lifted and fell with it.

Strange, to think of the sea taking them at the last. Maybe not so for Gordon. It astonished Virgil when he was younger, the way a child born in the heart of the huge landmass that was the United States could be drawn so implacably towards the ocean. It made more sense as they shared holidays in California and watched his brother offer himself to the sea again and again. There was something about the quicksilver quality of him that met and matched the unpredictability of the sea; something about a calm surface hiding wayward currents, about genial wavelets that lead out to boldness that took the breath away.

Whereas Virgil – well, he loved to fly and he loved his open skies, but he found happiness in the soil, too. In watching things grow, in feeling the Earth beneath his feet on a warm summer day or a frost-ridden night and knowing his home was rooted in the dry Kansas dirt, a place that held all he loved best in the world.

He wasn't morbid, or maudlin, and he never imagined his own funeral or that of his brothers. But if asked, he would say that he expected they would all be brought home, eventually, to that small plot out back where his Mom and his grandfather and his long-gone uncle lay. There was no comfort in the thought, just a sense of rightness. That was where they should be.

Another wave at cross-purposes that took him full in the faceplate, bringing him back to the unbearable now.

Better to think of how it was. When Gordon was so small he would leap like a monkey on Virgil's back and ride him around the yard, while Scott just looked up from where he was helping shovel hay and shake his head, smiling. Or when he and Gordon worked together in a particularly effective combination to prank Scott in return, Gordon cheerfully taking all the credit and blame, Virgil blinking innocently in the background. Gordon found the pay off in the conspiratorial wink he'd send him, that acknowledgement of belonging to something special, something beyond.

Better to think of the day they first came to the island – just he and Gordon and Alan with their dad, and a half built house that suggested nothing of what lay beneath it. Of Gordon delirious with the beach and the sea and the caves he and Alan found around the cove. Of Dad standing there, looking faintly ridiculous with his trousers rolled up against the incoming surf but blissfully unaware as he gazed at what his dreams and ambition and sacrifice had wrought.

Gordon's hand moved against his thigh. Or was that just the sea, tapping him a message of 'soon'?

He was feeling cold. That shouldn't happen, not with his IR suit, but his shoulder hurt and his legs were numb and he felt the cold creeping slowly down his body, a microcosmic ice age. The ultimate kindness, he thought. To drift into hypothermia as they floated here; to lose all feeling and then sleep, and know nothing more of pain or fear or regret.  
No, wait. This was the ultimate kindness.

He stopped his humming.

He could hear Thunderbird One.

He would know that engine sound amongst thousands, and this was the only thing filling his hearing, coming from somewhere beyond him over the vast blue to slowly roar overhead and hover. This was the moment he'd searched for all his life, through music, through art, through loving his family and friends. That glimpse of the eternal, that touch of the numinous. He began to laugh, softly, a kind of peaceful joy displacing the cold, and he brought his helmet close to Gordon's ear.

"Dad's here," he said.

He knew what would happen. The belly of One would open, and a ladder would drop down – and there, staring over the hatch edge, would be his father, his dad, smiling a welcome. And beside him, impish with secrets, nothing but love in her eyes, would be Mom. The ladder would reach Virgil and he would stretch up and grab it, effortlessly, and then Gordon would wake and climb up to Mom and Dad, and Virgil would follow. No tiredness, no pain. Easy. And maybe they'd look down and see their bodies still in the water, or maybe they dropped beneath the waves an hour ago, Virgil's weight dragging Gordon down. It didn't matter. Dad would reach down and take Gordon's hand, and then Gordon would be in Thunderbird One, and it would be Virgil's turn.

And they'd fly together, in a timeless place, until Scott needed to be picked up, and then Grandma, and Alan. John last of all, just stepping away from Five and floating to them, laughing at the absurdity of it. The freedom and happiness of it.

Only –

Only John was already here. It was John looking down at him, from the lowered pilot seat, face distorted, eyes – God, tormented eyes that were staring from a personal hell.

And he was yelling something.

The ladder was angling down, and the pilot seat was retracted and John was gone.

Was this an hallucination?

Why was it John?

"Gordo, I think maybe I've finally lost it. Yeah, I know, smart guy, I lost it a long time ago." The sea, dropping him down, taking his breath, slamming him up again to the top. "Or no, you'd claim I never had it, right? Easy for you to say… I'm seeing Thunderbird One, just above us, that big silver belly hanging in the sky… Crazy, huh? And I'm seeing John. Yeah, I know, right? Scott and Alan, maybe, but John? He's – okay, he's climbing down the ladder." A slap of seawater as one wave cut across him, and it was too much. For a long second he thought he'd drop beneath the waves, just give in to the damn thing. Only that was not yet here, that irredeemable moment, and he brought his head up from under the water and kept his eyes on the vision above him.

"It really – oh boy." He had to laugh, the tiredest sound in the world, but this was funny, right? Watching John trying to cling to the ladder as it got swamped by the same wave that just mugged him. John's legs swung out and off the rungs but – ah, yeah, Johnny, you always were bright. He had a safety line on, so the wave could spin him but he just slammed back against the ladder when it was done, looking like a drowned ginger cat, only more uncoordinated than a cat would ever let itself be.

And he kept coming. This was a persistent hallucination. He kept coming until he was only a few feet ahead, and Virgil couldn't see him anymore because he was floating on his back facing the island and John had hovered Thunderbird One further way so that the waves would take them to him which was the right move in a situation like this and oh god oh god this wasn't real. Was it?

A dreadful sensation, all peace and tranquillity gone as if the waves had crashed right through him, bringing the terror of reality.

This was a rescue.

This was John, rescuing them.

Immediately, his body bucked and began to kick, losing the balance that kept them together and on the surface.

A new fight, against the id that wanted only to survive and the flesh that obeyed it.

"Virgil! Virgil, hold still! I've almost got you. I've – "

Another big wave, swinging them up, dumping them down, and now John was directly above him, two metres clear of the water as the wave bottomed out, and his thoughts were a maelstrom, images of days and days on the island, of guns and Gordon's grin, of fighting through concussion and cold, of being in the water, forever, and they'd tried so hard but Gordon was so quiet now, so still, and Virgil couldn't take this, couldn't bear it, if John came down from the heavens just half an hour too late.

And then he felt hands on him, and the brother distanced by space but always by his side was putting his arms around him.

"Virgil, listen to me. I have a harness here for each of you. I'm going to put one on Gordon and then – oh, shit, Gordon, oh no, no."

That was the single worst moment of Virgil's life.

Gordon was being manhandled, an arm put through the harness, another lift from the waves before a trough and the other arm was awkwardly manoeuvred into the straps. Virgil felt John's hands reach between them, and then his fingers were clicking the harness together in front of him. A swift tug to check, and John clipped the harness to the line.  
All efficient and textbook but John's face was close to Virgil's and he could see the panic in the steadiest man he knew. It was bleeding all over them.

Gordon had stopped bleeding a lifetime ago.

"I've got you. Come on, Gordon, I'll take you first." But John wasn't taking him, he was talking to Virgil, telling him to let go. Virgil nodded, yes, of course, but his arms were rigid in their hold and somehow he couldn't move them, even as his mind acknowledged the necessity.

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. Got a little cramped there." If his eyes said panic, his voice was still the most soothing thing Virgil had ever heard. John could talk down a hurricane, Grandma said, and she was right. "Just let me get your harness on, okay? Don't want to – to lose you now. Just let me lift one of your arms. You hold on with the other, okay? That's it, that's great Virgil, you're doing great."

One arm prised away from his little brother and the harness slid on.

"Very good. Halfway home. Almost there, Virgil, I just need you to swap over now, let me have the other one."

And something broke inside him. Something that had calcified in him since the moment Thunderbird Two began to drop, something that stayed upright and hard and implacable. A soul spine, that part of him that said, this is my brother, and I am standing here, and you are not going to take him.

It cracked in two, and fell away in pieces. Its job was done. All the strength in him just crumbled into dust, and he was tired, beyond words, and sick with failure, and a sadness deeper than the water beneath him.

He let go.

And the sea claimed him so fast he didn't have a second to wish his sky farewell.

He was looking up at the surface, all faceted gray and black and darkest blue, but bright, too, brighter than the darkness taking him down. He tried to reach up, but his arm was frozen in place with the cold, and he hugged nothingness as he sank towards it.

A violent swirling above him, and he was gripped, on his shoulder, and the pain told him he was still alive. John's hand, strong and sure – except he wasn't moving upwards, and it wasn't strength he was feeling through his brother's hands. It was the desperation of weakness tackling a task beyond it.

Another swirl, another obscurity of bubbles, and a second hand had him.

This one was no more capable than the first, and Virgil found himself suspended, in limbo, close enough to the surface to reach air at his fingertips, deep enough under to be beyond the reach of that same air. It was the sound of a snapped neck, the weight of a dead man, bringing him down; a guilt he had not had the chance to consider, that he might reject or accept but for the fact he had no time to do either. He was going to drown, as John held him, and the thought came to him so clear and bright it burned like fire in his mind.

You can't let that happen to him. Not to John.

The fire of it burned down his limbs, and somehow legs that were nothing but lead began to kick, slow but powerful, and John felt it, pulled harder, until Virgil's helmet broke the surface and John wrapped one arm around Virgil's neck while the other left his shoulder and grabbed the ladder.

"God, no, Virgil, hold on, please, just…"

Virgil took a long shuddering breath. They hung there panting together, briefly, with Gordon sagging a little above them, secured higher up the ladder.

"I'm sorry, Virg. I'm - it should be Scott. It should be Scott." The arm around his neck squeezed tighter, and Virgil could feel the fear in his brother. "I came down fast, left all my strength on Five."

For John, he found his voice.

"Okay. I can hold on."

"Virgil! Good, that's – that's –"

"Choking me."

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry." A pained kind of chuckle, the sound a man made when he had very little left. "Okay, here. Put that arm through the rung, hook on while I get you strapped up."

John's hands, ungentle and busy, bundled him into the harness, attached a line.

"Dammit, there's no time, I'm taking you both. Just hold on, both of you. Gordon? Virgil, just sit tight, we're going for a ride."

A jerk, another huge wave and he hit John as his brother slammed back into the ladder, his body between them and the bars, as Gordon's limp body crashed into his and John reached to gather them both. Then the line pulled again, and they were rising, above the water, another wave catching their feet, and John was saying something, over and over, but Virgil just hung in the harness, in his brother's arm, and Gordon's head lay still against John's chest, and whatever John was saying it was drowned out by that cruellest of refrains.

Too late. Too late.

He almost banged his head as they reached One's hatchway, until John saw the danger and put his own elbow there to push them clear. And then they were all lying on the metallic floor, and the hatchway was closed behind them, and John was scrambling in a kind of slow motion.

He wrenched open the medical cabinet and pulled out thermal blankets, one for each, before reeling over to kneel at Virgil's side.

"No." It sounded so weak in the echo of One's belly. "No, Gordon, don't – "

"I know." John's face looked white in his helmet, but he gave Virgil a smile, strained but real. "I'm going to be busy with him for a bit, so I'm just getting you set up first." Briskly, he cracked two pocket heaters then unzipped Virgil's suit and pushed them under each armpit. The warmth was astonishing in its impact. Another package opened, and John was pressing a wound dressing hard against the top of his shoulder, at the base of his neck, and pain jolted through his body, even as Virgil thought, what did I do there?  
It was as if John read his thoughts. Well, after all, he often did.

"Got yourself a nick there, nasty one. Some kind of cut? Or – "

He hesitated, then frowned and shook his head, as if signalling he didn't want to follow that line of thinking. Carefully, he pulled Virgil's helmet clear.

Before Virgil could say anything, John wrapped the foil blanket about his body, tucking it in tightly, before stopping his swift movements and putting one gloved hand gently on Virgil's cheek.

"You're alive." Said with wonder, and his eyes suddenly starred with tears. He blinked them away, impatient with himself, and found a bigger smile. "Stay that way."

And then he was over by Gordon, those same brisk, efficient movements, and Virgil lay utterly still on the metal floor and felt the smooth reverberations of her engine, heard the muffled roar of her VTOL, and began to believe that he wasn't going to die.

It should be a joyous thought, but another one triumphed.

Survival? That was a two for one deal.

He had a sudden, vivid recollection of Gordon looking across to him as he finally stopped wrestling the controls in Two all those long days ago, as he looked back at his little brother with despair and sorrow. Of saying sorry, I'm so sorry, and that sweetest, saddest of smiles on Gordon's face.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be."

Ever since that second, Virgil knew their fates were together. They would die as one or live as one. They both made it out of Two, of Four, they both survived the island, or they both made that longer, final trip, side by side.

That was the deal, that is what he'd signed his soul to.

He could hear John talking to Gordon, urgent and insistent, summoning him back from wherever he'd gone. He was always a handful as a kid, the one who'd hide in order to frighten the hell out of responsible older brothers, the one most likely to run ahead out of sheer devilment. It was his big brother now, his indestructible, unsinkable big brother on his last reserves of energy, who was coaxing him to stay. John always did have a way with Gordon.

He rolled his head, still in its helmet, to one side so that he could look across to where Gordon lay and John worked on him.

Gordon's hand lay on the floor of One's hold, fingers curled up, loose and still. With an effort, Virgil cleared one of his own arms from the thermal blanket and reached across to him.

Together. Or not at all.

And as he thought it, he felt those fingers curl deep into his own.

 **Notes:**

Have a lovely time of celebration, whatever you're celebrating. For me it's my family and dear friends such as S-L, who brought the Tracys into my life again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13** **: Tidings**

 **Summary:**

The hurt is almost over... well, almost. But the comfort part is starting to earn its keep, at last.

 **Notes:**

Once again, Soleil_Lumiere has made this so much better. I owe her all the fun I've had writing this.

 **Chapter Text**

Thunderbird One was the first of the IR aircraft to be finished, following as it did so closely after TV21. The cockpit was minimalist in its superficial design, all of its extraordinary features hidden away from the casual visitor's eyes. Jeff Tracy's intent echoed that of the early Mercury astronauts; he wanted the person who sat in the pilot's seat to have a view – in this case, a hundred and eighty degree view - to give him or her a visual oversight of a rescue scene to complement or if necessary supersede the scanners on-board. He liked his machines; he loved his pilots.

More than anything, and unconfessed to anyone else, Jeff Tracy wanted his pilots, his sons, to be able to see as well as sense the speed at which TB1 flew. It was never an official design imperative, but somewhere in his barely subconscious mind was an unacknowledged commitment to the thrill of it all. John Tracy so rarely got to experience it that on any other day, he would be fully immersed in the wow factor One provided.

Today, he barely noticed it at all.

His hands shook on the controls. Partly from overwhelming fatigue, the like of which he had never experienced before, his space-sick body burning through every last atom of energy he owned in first retrieving and now delivering his lost brothers.

Partly from pure, mind-slapping shock.

Virgil was not a corpse keening to him from the depths. Virgil was lying on the floor of One's hold with a gouged shoulder and a medium case of hypothermia. It was almost incomprehensible, the utter completeness of John's miscalculation. He didn't feel guilt- that was an indulgence at this point in time – but he did feel the repercussions of a mind reeling with the effort of re-calibration.

Virgil was alive. Gordon – Gordon was…

He squeezed his hands tighter on the controls, until he realised the futility and waste of energy. He had so little left. As long as he could fly One he was doing his duty, meeting the commitments that were etched into his heart; he couldn't waste any effort on gestures that were not part of that essential process.

But Gordon – they'd shot him. They'd shot his little brother. The little boy so full of impish charm; the teenager driven to succeed but still, somehow, sunny-natured and mischievous; the young man, generous and kind and brave. Someone had pointed a gun at his body and fired, intending to kill. Intending to destroy everything that Gordon was and gave to the world. There was no reasoning that could justify that, no cause that could support an action so inherently evil. The fact of it flooded John's body with a thwarted rage, and he knew that flood was part of why he was so exhausted. The effort of will it took not to focus on anger and justice and fear, the perfect vigilante cocktail, was immense.

Instead, he had to focus on the fact that Gordon was alive. Wounded. Severely hypothermic. But alive, and fighting, holding on tight to Virgil's hand even though consciousness was an ephemeral thing for him just now.

He'd been so cold, so quiet, it took a minute of John's life that would never fade in order for him to find a pulse. No wonder EOS said the readings were strange. The coldness would kill him, eventually, but until it did it saved him, slowing his heartbeat and the bleeding that would have otherwise seen him dead an hour before.

John blew out his breath and took several deep ones, deliberately lowering his shoulders from where they had uselessly tightened.

He remembered with sudden vividness Gordon shaking his head and sighing, months ago, when John had been slow to detect a catastrophic landslide thanks to a gigantic solar flare that defeated all the defence mechanisms on Five's scanners. IR was later than it might have been, but still arrived in time to save stranded volcanologists trapped high above the debris.

"One job, Johnny," he'd said, grave and disappointed and full of mockery, "you had one job."

And John, outraged, beginning to defend himself and Five before he saw Virgil's crooked eyebrow, his wry smile.

"Omniscience is not one job, Gordon, it's every job," he'd replied, loftily, "and you better believe I do my damned job."

One job. He had one job now, and it was every job that ever counted. It was to get his brothers to hospital, bring them safely back from oblivion, from the threshold of non-existence. He'd swatted away Schrödinger, opened the box, and two cats jumped out, alive. He had to keep them that way.

There was no time for joy. No energy for wonderment. Just flying, and asking EOS to contact Edinburgh Hospital, get them to ready the landing area that Jeff Tracy paid for years ago as the north-western European emergency evacuation site for IR.

"They'll need two hover-stretchers, EOS."

'I suggest they will need three.'

"Nonsense. I'll be fine. At least, it doesn't matter either way. It's Gordon who needs immediate medical attention, and Virgil, too. I've only performed rudimentary first aid."

'They've been notified. I've told them your ETA is five minutes.'

"Five? Yes, I- I guess so. Thanks, EOS."

'John? I'm glad you found them.'

"Yeah. Me too."

He could barely read the numbers in front of him.

But he had one other task to perform. He tapped his sash comm.

"Thunderbird One to base. Come in, base."

The holo-view in front of him showed a deserted conversation pit, an empty desk behind it.

"Tracy Island, this is Thunderbird One. Come in, base."

Nothing. What time was it over there? He switched to the personal comms.

"Alan! Wake up!"

"Ugh. Yeah, I hear you." He could make out Alan, for once not on the floor but sitting in his chair slumped against his desk, slowing straightening and stretching. "Sorry. Yeah, John, what is it? What do – hey, where are you?" He did a double take that demonstrated his tiredness in its slow-motion clumsiness. "Are you – is that One? John, did you steal One? Where's Scott?"

"Yes, I'm in One. Listen, Alan-"

"No, wait. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry, Scott's in the hospital. I – my brain wasn't awake."

"It's okay, don't worry about that. Listen – "

"Oh, god, is Scott – is he – they said he was doing better, I rang about – uh, two hours ago, yikes, I musta really bombed out, they said he was stable, and the swelling's going down."

"Yes, last I heard, but look, Alan, it's really important. I've – "

"You're in One!" Alan seemed to be coming online in waves. "When did they let you fly that? I thought nothing was allowed up. They did a big thing on TV, it's worldwide –"

"Alan!"

His little brother blinked, surprised at the vehemence.

"Whoa. You got up on the wrong side of the planet, huh."

It would be a waste of energy to face palm, so John resisted.

"Go and get Grandma. Now. It's important."

"Ookay?" Alan got up and gave him a look that suggested John needed several chill pills – then he paused, and his expression changed into something else entirely. "John? Is it – have you – " He stopped, and gripped the back of the chair.

"Alan – "

John wanted so badly to tell him the news calmly, because his own equilibrium was teetering and he needed to keep it together, stay professional, stay focused. But suddenly the words were rushing into his throat, blocking it, and stupid tears filled eyes already blurred with fatigue. He heard Alan make a small, scared sound, and John shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the words, trying to convey a message so small it could be contained in four words and so big it would change their world.

"It's okay," he managed, at last. "They're alive."

Alan's mouth crumpled in on itself the way it did when he was trying not to cry.

"Scott? He's okay?"

"No, no, not Scott. Alan, it's – they're alive. Virgil and – it's Virgil and Gordon."

Alan was shaking his head, slowly.

"I don't understand, John. I don't get it. What do you – "

And then he gasped, one hand rising to his mouth, for all the world like a silent movie depiction of someone shocked.

"Alan, get Grandma. And Brains – is he - just get everyone and get to the control desk. I'll be able to patch a feed through for you when we land in about a minute."

"They're alive?" Alan was gripping the chair now as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Where?"

At last, John found a way to drag the muscles in his face into a smile. "In One. I've got them. I'm bringing them home."

He expected a whoop, perhaps, or an air punch, a yell. But Alan just looked at him, and John saw him for the child he still was, in so many ways – a bewildered little boy pressed beyond his limit but still upright, still trying.

"Gordon? A-and Virgil? Both of them? They're both safe?"

John nodded.

"They're both safe. Gordon's hurt. They're both going to need hospital care."

It was that detail that seemed to bring the International Rescue part of Alan's mind back.

"You've got them in One and they're injured. Okay. Okay, I'll go get Grandma."

"Great. I'm going to be landing by the time you do that." Aberdeenshire was flashing beneath him, green and russet brown. He began the deceleration to bring them down towards Edinburgh. "Go tell Grandma."

Alan nodded, and then stopped.

"No, you gotta do that. John – for sure?"

"For sure, Alan. Landing now."

He tapped out and brought all his focus to bear on the city rushing towards him, finding the castle as he'd guided Scott to do only days before, then locking onto the hospital with his guidance system and easing her down.

On the landing area, sizeable enough to accommodate Thunderbird Two, he could see a group of people waiting for him. Four hospital staff stood by two hover-stretchers, patented by Tracy Industries twelve years ago, their designer never indulging the fear that his own sons would be taken on them one day. John powered down, and opened the access hatch.

He stood up, using the pilot's seat as Alan used his desk chair, finding his balance when the world tilted strangely for him. It seemed a long, uphill trek to the door, a Herculean effort to open it and climb through to the hold, where emergency workers were already working on Gordon and being fended away from a dizzy but determined Virgil, who was white faced and dark-eyed but somehow, impossibly, dragging his feet under him for an attempt at getting up.

"Virgil. Come on, now. Let them do their job."

"Come on yourself. I'm fine. It's Gordon they should be worrying about."

A feisty Virgil was a recovering Virgil. Through the fog of his own exhaustion, John felt the first true flicker of something more than relief. He reached down to keep Virgil from trying to rise.

"They're looking after him. Just let them look after you, okay? You know better than this."

"I know better than - ? I'm a little cold, a little tired, I could use a proper shower."

"Virgil. Please."

Virgil looked up at him, and he must have seen something in John's face that spoke more eloquently than John's words could. He subsided, resting back on his elbows.

"Where's Scott?"

"In the hospital. He's doing better. You'll be able to visit if you play nice now."

"What happened? Alan here? Kayo? John, what's going on?"

It was too much. How could he tell the story of the last week? The heartache, the terror, the pain and grief and sheer bloody horror of it all? He just shook his head.

"Later. Just go with them now, okay?"

Virgil's hand shot up to grip his. It was a weak grip, but John knew it would never relent until Virgil had what he wanted.

"Alan?"

"Alan's fine, on Tracy Island with Grandma and Brains. Kayo's safe, in New York."

Virgil frowned.

"What about – "

"Penelope and Parker are safe, too. Now that you two are back, that's everyone accounted for."

Virgil stared at him, eyes intent, that resolute quality everyone missed beneath the easy affection they usually held.

Two nurses came to them, the hover-stretcher at the side of one.

"We're ready for you, now. Can you tell me your name?"

"Virgil Tracy," and the eyes never left his until they read the truth in John's. Then, at last, Virgil made a sound like a sigh beneath his breath, and his shoulders relaxed, allowing his body to be taken by the nurses, to be rolled over and onto the stretcher, his head dropping back.

"You need to get some help too, John."

"Yeah. Don't worry about me." He watched as they manoeuvred the stretcher out through the access hatch, following the one containing Gordon. Those attendants were jogging ahead, their need urgent.

They'll be on time, he told himself. It's all going to be on time.

"Base to Thunderbird One. Come in, One."

Grandma. He slid down to sit against the titanium membrane that was One's bulkhead, pulling his feet up and dropping his hands to rest on his knees.

"Hello, Base. We've landed. They're on their way inside."

Grandma frowned from where she sat at the control desk. Dad's desk. "Who, John? Where are you?"

"I'm at Edinburgh Hospital."

"Of course you are. I mean – why are you there in One?"

John gave a chuckle that barely deserved the name.

"I think I've already had this conversation. Grandma, what you really need to know is simple. Virgil and Gordon are alive. And I've just seen them unloaded to go in to the hospital."

Alan appeared behind her, and if he'd been dazed before, now his grin was solar in its brightness. Grandma looked steadily at John for several seconds, then she groaned, as if releasing an unbearable weight, even as she sagged beneath it.

"They're safe? My boys are safe?"

And why the hell was it Grandma's question that robbed him of his voice, that closed around his throat again? He just nodded, a smile fixed on his face, as Alan gave the whoop that was only postponed earlier.

"I told you they'd make it! Nobody gets the Tracy brothers, and that goes double for those Ratgobbling Regency motherfu – "

"Alan!" And maybe that was the best thing Alan could have said, because Grandma was straightening up and raising a warning finger. "You may be celebrating, but you don't get to – oh, but my beautiful boys, we're celebrating!" She wrapped her arms around Alan and gave him a hug so hard John felt it from half a world away.

"Now, let me think," she continued, as if anyone else was steering this conversation. "John, you look tired. You came down too fast, didn't you?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Where's Kayo? Oh, that's right, she's in New York. What about Lady Penelope?"

"She's back at Lossiemouth."

"Hmm. Well, I'm getting in touch with her. She'll sort you out. Have you told Kayo yet?"

John just shook his head, in awe once again at the indomitable strength of this woman he loved.

"Do you want me to find her? No," Grandma answered herself, "no, you should do it. You'll have the details. John, are they well? You're at the hospital. Are they – is everything alright?"

It hurt to say the words.

"Gordon's wounded, Grandma. He's not – it's a bad one."

Even Alan sobered at that.

"What do you mean 'wounded'?"

There was no point sugar-coating anything.

"He's been shot. In the chest. But they were in the sea, so he was cold enough that it slowed the bleeding to just about nothing. Saved him, really."

"Well, of course it did." Grandma sounded decided. "The sea looks after its own, and Gordon's always belonged to the sea."

"Yeah. I'm guessing they were on Rona Island. That's near where I found them, though why they ended up that far offshore – well, I guess we're going to have to wait and hear them tell it."

He saw Grandma close her eyes in sheer gratitude that there would be stories to tell, and two of her grandsons she thought gone there to tell them.

"How did you find them?' Alan was doing something like a bounce behind Grandma, his face showing the need of an over-excited, over-extended boy to share fifty different expressions at once.

John allowed a sigh. "It's a long story, Al. Can it wait? I want to tell Kayo."

"Sure, sure." Alan waved him away, munificent in his joy. "She's gonna freak."

"Get in touch as soon as you know anything, John." Grandma glared at him, with the fierce love she used to try and shield all her family. "And get some rest!"

"I will, Grandma. John out."

From where he sat he could see through the access hatch onto concrete, marked with green paint. A dull view, but his eyes weren't looking beyond the two wet patches on the floor of the plane, the scraps of discarded medical packaging, the helmet, still beaded with seawater, upended by the hydraulic lift, each one of them a sign that his brothers were there, that he wasn't delirious somewhere, hallucinating happiness.

Tiredly, he raised a hand to tap at his sash once more.

"EOS, can you put me through to Kayo?"

'Connecting you, John.'

He found himself on the receiving end of two intense green eyes. From years of experience, he knew she'd woken at the call, and that she would be instantly aware and ready for his message.

"John. You look like hell. Is it Scott?"

"No, as far as I know, he's holding his own."

"So – " Those shrewd green eyes widened. "Something's happened. Virgil and Gordon?"

He nodded, a sloppy grin the best he could manage, and he heard her gasp.

"They're – it's good news? John?"

"Yeah. Good news. They're both here at the hospital. Gordon's hurt, Virgil will be fine. They're both here, Kayo."

"God, that's…" She closed her eyes, briefly following Grandma, then opened them to give John a dazzling grin. "I always knew Gordon had more luck than most. And he knows how to share. John, that's brilliant. Fill me in later, yeah? You need to rest. Unless there's something I should know?"

"Have you spoken to Colonel Casey?"

"Since I got to New York? Yes, why?"

"So you know Scott's idea worked? He disabled the sub?"

"Hence the rounding up of three Mustangs. And pilots to fly them. They're recently retired USAF pilots, and they're very keen to have a shot at our little Regency friends over here in - oh my god. Gordon! Have you contacted Penny?"

"Lady Penelope? No, not yet. Next on my list."

"Next –John, you have to tell her. Now."

"Okay. Sure. Yes. I was going to."

"John – it's Gordon."

"I – know?"

Kayo rolled her eyes.

"Never mind. Just do it. Meanwhile, it's about time I got up and got going. I want to be airborne by dawn."

"I thought you said there were retired pilots..?"

"You seriously don't think I'm going to let them have all the fun now, do you?"

"Yeah, probably not." John blinked heavily. "Stay safe, Kayo. I think this family has had enough drama for a while."

She chuckled. "You too, John. I mean it, you need to go and find somewhere to put your feet up. You look completely done in."

"Will do. Thunderbird One out."

A wave of weariness, bone-deep, and for a moment he let his wrist drop down to the floor, before lifting it once again and raising it towards his face.

One more to go.

"EOS, find me FAB1. Lady Penelope."

'Lady Penelope here for you now, John.'

From bright green eyes to deepest blue. But the same stark intelligence, the same immediate focus.

"John. What is the news on Scott?"

John shifted his bottom on the floor.

"No news, Penelope. He's doing as well as we can hope." Kayo's odd urging was echoing in his ears. "It's about Gordon. And Virgil."

"Gordon!"

Now that was weird. The steadiest, calmest operative he'd ever known, and she gasped his brother's name like her heart was on her lips.

"They're safe and here in Edinburgh."

"Safe." She breathed the word, and John felt he had to be more accurate, even at the cost of the light he could see in her face.

"Gordon's hurt, he's been shot."

And he felt as though he'd shot her, the sudden, piercing pain in those eyes.

"Shot? Where - who - ?"

"The Regency, I suspect. A single shot to the chest, high up, but it's dangerous. He's in the hospital now. Just lucky he was in the sea, kept his temperature down, slowed the bleeding."

"In the sea…" She shook her head, as dazed as Alan. "But where – where has he been? Did he say? Anything, did he say anything?"

"No, I'm sorry. He wasn't – he was badly hurt. But I know he'll be okay. He's tough, and he's in the best hands."

Penelope's hands were in sight, and he watched as they clenched and unclenched.

"Was he conscious?"

"Enough to hold on to Virgil."

"Virgil, yes, of course. Of course. How is he?"

"He'll be – " And again, that sudden choke. He coughed, forcing that band of emotion out from around his larynx. "Virgil's gonna be fine."

"I'm so glad. That's quite marvellous news, John. I mean, both of them. But Gordon…" Her voice trailed off, an obvious diversion into deepest worry. Some kind of alarm was raised somewhere in John's mind, a great, big wake-up call, but it was too distant and too muffled to make any kind of sense.

"Gordon's as tough as they come, Penny. He's going to make it." His certitude astonished him, and he wondered if it was earned. He'd been certain of Virgil's demise, after all, and been terribly, wonderfully wrong with that. Could he afford to be so sure of Gordon's survival?

Yes. Because he knew his little brother, knew what he'd overcome in the past, knew just how profound was that strength of spirit, that stubborn, ridiculous, refusal to surrender.

No. Gordon wasn't going anywhere.

"Well. I know you will have a lot to do, so I'll leave you to it. I – thank you, John, for letting me know. There are many details I've yet to hear, of course, but that can wait. We'll be there in twenty minutes. Ten." She lifted her chin a little, and he realised her eyes looked so big because there were tears in them, and if they were tears of grief or hurt or joy he lacked the energy to decide. "I'll see you soon, John. FAB1 out."

And that was it. All duty done. All accounted for. All of them out of his hands and given over to those who could do the best by them.

All he had to do was get up and follow Virgil and Gordon across the landing area and through the swinging doors that took them into the hospital. He put one hand down to the plane floor and went to push up.

Nothing.

It was almost astonishing, the complete lack of strength. He tried again, but it wasn't a matter of effort – there was simply no power in his arms, in his legs.

He let his head fall back against the bulkhead, because he couldn't hold it up any more.

So. Looked like he was here for a while.

He gave a soft laugh.

'John? Why are you laughing? Is something funny?'

"Only me." He smiled upwards, to where she was floating, far above the Earth.

'I don't understand, John. Your readings aren't good. Are you in pain?'

Was he? For the first time in hours he took stock of his own body, and instantly the flu-like cramps and aches made themselves known.

"I'm awful, EOS. I feel absolutely awful." He laughed again, hearing the crazy and not giving two cents for it.

'John, I'm going to contact the hospital. I don't like this.'

"You do that, EOS."

He was right, before, when he told Virgil it didn't matter.

The flicker deep within him grew, a flaming spiral of joy so bright, so coruscating, that it hurt him even as lit all the darkest corners of him. And suddenly, hopelessly, his shoulders were heaving, and heavy, silent tears were welling from him, falling away from him, taking the last of his strength from him as he sat there in a solitude that felt nothing like one because his brothers were found.

They were still in the world, still a part of him, and he needed nothing else.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14** **: Lying in wait**

 **Notes:**

Another super fast, super helpful beta from Soleil_Lumiere.  
And here's to a better year to come.

 **Chapter Text**

Gordon was dead.

Which was, you know, kinda sad.

There would be a whole bunch of guys and gals at San Diego who'd miss him. Like, really miss him. There was that gorgeous Aussie guy, Trent, for starters. And – oh, that amazing girl with the hair. And Ari, that other gorgeous Aussie guy, who was best mates with Trent and - the amazing girl with the hair. Serena! That was her name. Awesome foursome, baby. Now that had been one hell of a week of R and R.

Oh, wait. Was that allowed, in heaven? Saying things like hell. Or thinking about things like – four on the floor. Yeah. Wow. Maybe he better stop thinking about San Diego, because maybe they frowned on boners in Jesus land. Although, that would make for a pretty crappy heaven.

Virgil was so gonna give him shit for this. They'd argued, a time or two. Virgil thought there was an afterlife, Gordon argued for the whole circle of life thing, because hell yeah, biology. So now it looked like there was some kind of fluffy cloud deal, and Virgil was right, and he and Virge had a kind of bet going on that if there was a heaven, his brother reserved the right to kick his ass all over it.

So, the afterlife was quiet, and hard to open your eyes in. And it smelt of – cinnamon? Kind of cinnamon, kind of flowery. That was familiar, wasn't it?

Of course it was. That was Penelope. His Penelope.

So the person you most wanted to see turned up in your own private heaven?

"That is so cool," he said. Or tried to. Came out kinda soggy, but then hey, he'd jumped in the sea to go around and give those Luddite creeps a hard time. Made sense if he sounded like he was still under water, didn't it? Isn't that where he died?

"Shh, darling, I'm right here."

Penelope's voice, close, and – yes, he could move his fingers, and she was holding them, and squeezing them, and Penny was here, his girl.

But – what if she was here because she was –

The thought made him open his eyes. And that was the hardest thing he'd had to do since dying.

Heaven was all soft lighting and soft bed and Penelope's eyes, that amazing blueness that held the ocean in them. He'd tell her that, one day. Or now, if this was heaven, because it wouldn't matter there, would it?

"Ocean… eyes."

"Darling, yes, open your eyes. Oh, Gordon, it's so good to see you. Just wait, I need to call them, they're wanting to talk to you."

They? His brothers?

And that didn't feel good at all. They couldn't all be here, too. That was – that was all kinds of wrong, but then, there was wreckage on the sea, and a crash, and maybe all the planes came down, and Five, and who was left behind, was Alan alone, who was looking after Grandma, was Scott -

"Dead?"

"Hmm? No, darling, you're not dead."

"Virgil."

"Virgil's fine. Everyone's fine. Look, here's the nurse."

There was a nurse. Huh. Anyone who, like him, had spent a long time in hospitals soon lost any sexy nurse fantasies they may have had. Nurses were kind and caring, but they also appeared alongside pain and bed pans and –

Dammit. A catheter. What kind of lousy heaven had a catheter in it?

No kind.

Ha! Virgil, so not right about the afterlife crap.

"Hello, Gordon. You're awake. Do you know where you are?"

Catheter. Nurse. Mood lighting. Yep. No fooling him.

"Hospital."

"Yes, that's right. Can you tell me if you're feeling any pain right now?"

Pain. Oh yeah, this was ticking every one of those awful boxes.

"Ow."

"Something a little more precise, Gordon."

Yeah, it wouldn't be Virgil kicking his butt, it would be Penelope.

Precise. He could do precise.

"Hurts."

The nurse leant over him, and that was no good, that meant he couldn't see his girl. Damn nurse was doing something and – oh, yeah, lots of pain. Lots of it.

"Lots."

"Alright, we'll make you more comfortable in just a minute, Gordon. The doctor wants to have a look at you first."

The doctor can take a flying leap at herself. Himself. Whatever. Meds now, chat later.

"Darling, do try to calm down." Hands, squeezing his hand, and that felt better. "Nurse, do you think the doctor could come along sooner rather than later?"

"She'll be along very soon."

Very soon was not now. Very soon didn't cut it. Because his chest was burning, like someone was pushing a red hot poker through it, and every breath saw that poker grind down into him with its heat and hardness, skewering him to the bed.

"I'll just put the mask back on you, it'll help your breathing."

Cool air, pure air, but feeding the fire and yeah, living hurts like hell, no heaven to be found.

"He's getting quite distressed, we need the doctor now."

That was his Penny, using that voice, and if that couldn't make an entire hospital jump to…

"Hello, I'm Doctor Simmonds."

Bully for you.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Gordon?"

Give me the good stuff and I'll do cartwheels for you.

"Darling, do try."

For Penelope? He'd do more than try.

He didn't remember closing his eyes again, but he must have, because now he opened them and there was a short woman in a blurry green top, and another one standing behind her, and Penny had shifted sides and was standing close by him, smiling and nodding and squeezing his hand.

She looked beautiful, because she always did. But something had put dark shadows around her eyes, something had taken that healthy pink blush from her cheeks and left a paleness that spoke of sleeplessness and worry. That – that shouldn't happen. Ever. Whoever had done that to his girl, they were gonna get such a whupping from him…

The doctor was doing stuff, and saying stuff, and it felt like there were so many people, crowding around him. All he wanted was Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward.

And drugs. Lots of drugs.

"Pen..?"

"I'm here. I'm holding your hand. Can you feel that?"

Yes. Yeah, that was nice, better than nice, it was the only thing stopping him from screaming about now because the fiend with the poker was putting all his weight on it and the molten metal was spreading out through his chest. For Penelope, he wouldn't cry out, but a whimper, a manly whimper, that – that was allowed, wasn't it?

There were words, and he caught cc's of something, and that sounded promising.

And then they were gone, and it was just him and Penny, and that was so much better. Only he had the oxygen mask on, so talking was going to be tough. Maybe he could tell her about the ocean in her eyes with his own.

"Oh, Gordon… it's been quite the week." She settled down into a chair at his bedside, and that was good, that meant she wasn't going anywhere for a while. "If I know anything about you, you'll have a million questions, but I think I can guess at most of them. Let's see how well I do. Firstly – all your brothers are safe, and now Scott is doing better, I can also say they're doing well. Oh! Oh, darling, I didn't mean to make you cry."

Hell, where did they come from? Tears, for crying out loud.

"Here, let me wipe those for you… there. It's alright. Your brothers are fine, and as soon as they hear you're awake, I have no doubt they'll be angling for visiting rights. Kayo's fine. Kayo! She's a marvel. She led a patrol that attacked the sub off New York, brought it down, brought the whole ridiculous Regency thing to an end. There were only two subs after all. You saw the other."

Did he?

"Alan is about to jump out of his skin. Grandma sends her love, Brains sends his, too, plus advice to get up and about as soon as you can to limit the possibility of pneumonia. They're back on Tracy Island, and can't come over here quite yet because of the need for quarantine. Brains was ill, Townsville virus, but he's much better now."

Come over here. Where was here?

"You're in Edinburgh General Hospital. In the wing your father built, when he decided that this would be the staging point for North Sea rescues. Scott and Virgil and John are all here, too. Parker's been popping in now and then, most solicitous as to your welfare. I'm not quite sure which of us he's been keeping an eye on, to be honest."

Make the pain go away.

"It does hurt, doesn't it. Well, you will insist on getting yourself shot. The meds should start to make you feel better in a minute or two."

Shot?

Penelope frowned at him, in so far as she ever frowned.

"You don't remember that? Hmm. Perhaps we should stop talking about anything quite so horrid until you're rather better."

But the word was echoing in him, as if the sound of a gunshot was still echoing alongside it. Shot. Someone – someone was shot.

And suddenly a memory so clear and hard and painful it could have speared into him with that damned poker in his chest. Of him, coming up through the waves, onto the rocks, and – and bringing someone down, a choke hold, quick, efficient, get their gun, now, two more, raising weapons at him and he's too quick, he's too good at this, he's firing –  
No chance, they had no chance, and he killed them, he killed two people, maybe more, he had the gun and –

"Darling, Gordon, it's alright, breathe slow and deep, slow and deep, it's alright…"

But it wasn't alright. His body was seizing, all his muscles tensing at the memory, vivid, brutal, callous in its intensity. The gun in his hand, the men, going up to Virgil, armed, deadly, and it was up to him, it was his hand, his gun against theirs, his reflexes, his aim, his ability to switch off and go dark and put them down.

"Gordon. Oh, don't cry, my darling, don't cry, it's alright. You're safe now, you're safe here, everyone's safe."

The slow and soft blanket of pain medication was covering him. Hiding him. She called him darling. She was wiping his eyes.

She didn't know him at all.

No point in stopping his tears, no point making a fuss. This was a pain that would last a lifetime.

Living.

Living hurt like hell. No heaven to be found.

XXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXXX XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXX

Scott was being wheeled into the ward on his bed.

Scott was awake.

Scott was being a pain in the ass.

"Who's in charge? I need to speak to Colonel Casey. Is there anyone here in any way capable of getting me my comms? It's extremely important that I talk with Colonel Casey this minute."

"If you'll just rest here for a minute, Scott, I'll see what I can do about your comms."

"No, there's no 'see what I can do'. I had a comm unit, with my IR uniform. Someone has to have taken it off me, and I need it back now."

Wow. Scott in military mode.

Who knew military Scott could be such a dick?

"I expect you to retrieve it from wherever it is you people have put it, ASAP. In the meantime, I guess I'll make do with a phone."

John rolled his head over on the pillow and looked toward the privacy curtain that separated him and his newly arrived brother.

"Scott, shut up. You'll wake Virgil."

Silence.

Profound and kind of funny. John felt an unusual urge towards something like a giggle that he covered up with his hand.

"John?"

Ah, military mode disengaged. That sounded tentative and confused and small. A nurse popped his head around the curtain, and John gestured to him to pull it back. The nurse nodded, grinning, and did so.

He revealed Scott, his head still heavily bandaged, one half of his face and both hands obscured by new skin re-gen patches.

"Hey, Scott. Good to see you up and ranting."

"John?" This was probably unfair, but watching his usually assertive, on-the-ball brother looking so wrong-footed was devilishly fun. Virgil would undoubtedly enjoy the hell out of it.

The nurse saw his chance.

"I'll leave you boys to it."

John watched him go, then gave his brother his embarrassingly mild form of a stink-eye.

"For the record? You weren't wearing your IR uniform or your comm unit when you crashed. They both have terellium in them, and we couldn't take the chance they could be used to piggy-back into the engine systems."

"I need – I need to tell Colonel Casey…"

"You really don't." John relented and gave him one of his kindest smiles, because his big brother was, after all, only continuing the fight for them all as best he knew how. "It's all over. We won."

Scott blinked at him. The one eye not hidden under bandages or skin patches was huge and bewildered, and desperately sad. Suddenly, nothing about this was amusing.

"You said – you said – "

"Virgil's sleeping. He couldn't wait any longer for you to wake up. On the other side of that curtain. He's safe, and so is Gordon."

He'd had to give that message several times now, and it felt better each time he did.

Scott continued to look bewildered.

"You want me to show you?"

A nod, slow and painful and so damned needy it hurt to see it. John nodded in return, and carefully sat up to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"You- you're injured?"

"This? No. Just came down too fast, did too much too soon. Space-lag. I'm fine. Will be. Feel like a ninety-year-old right now, but that'll pass."

To prove it, John shuffled around Scott's bed and pulled the curtain back. True to his word, there was Virgil, sleeping on his side facing them, one hand draped over the edge of the bed as if it had fallen in the act of reaching for someone. John pivoted to see Scott's reaction.

And the look on his big brother's face was so raw it felt like he should pull a hundred privacy curtains across to protect it from anyone else's gaze.

"They really are okay," he said, gently. Scott nodded again, and cleared his throat.

"I can see that. Where's Gordy?"

The childhood nickname didn't go unnoticed.

"He's in intensive care. They think he's going to be alright. ECGs show normal brain activity. Although remember, this is Gordon we're talking about."

Feeble humour, but it didn't raise the faintest hint of a smile.

"They 'think'..?"

"Seriously, Scott, as long as he doesn't get an infection, there's no reason not to think he'll make a full recovery."

"Both of them…" Scott had the look of a man who'd won the lottery and didn't dare believe in it too quickly. "Who found them? The GDF? Kayo?"

"No. It was me, actually. Well, EOS found the signal." John carefully made his way back to his bed and eased himself down onto it.

"You?"

It would have been insulting had John thought Scott was operating at his full capacity.

"Yes, me. Hence the space-sickness." He stretched out his legs and sighed with the relief. "You crashed the plane, I came down in a hurry, and since you were benched pretty permanently, I figured I better step in and finish the job."

Scott raised one hand as if to scratch at his head, then thought better of it. There was a long pause.

"You?"

Okay, full capacity or not, this was insulting now.

"Astonishing, I know. Took One out for a spin, thought I'd pick up a couple of very wet hitchhikers."

Scott closed his good eye.

"I don't know how to process all this. I can't – they're really both safe. And Kayo?"

John smiled at him again, understanding.

"Everyone's okay. It's a lot to take in, I know. But mostly, it's down to you. You took out the first sub. That meant the weapon was out of action, too, and we could scan once the EMF cloud dissipated. And it meant we knew how to destroy the second sub. Yes, there was a second one," he continued, as Scott opened his eye in question, "over by the US east coast. They claimed more, but that was all bluff. It's gone. A certain member of IR decided she could do anything her big brother could and promptly brought the whole thing to a halt. Right now, some retired USAF pilots are the toast of the town in New York, and Kayo's on her way back here. She stayed an extra day to follow up on some leads about possible other members or branches of this crazy cult."

Scott grimaced.

"Let's hope not. So. Where were they all this time?"

John knew which 'they' he meant. But he'd had time to replay a certain cockpit conversation over and over in his head, and he figured Scott could do without that particular self-punishment just now.

"Stuck out in the middle of the North Sea. They'll tell you all about it, no doubt, when they're up and about. Should have known they'd be too stubborn to kill."

"Those two." Scott gave a small shake of his head, his expression, even obscured as it was, holding a world of affection. "Yeah, we should have known. Virgil would get them through it, no matter what."

"I should have known -" John began, and stopped. For a man who prided himself on his clarity of thought, the orderliness of his mind, when he looked inside he saw nothing but a great inchoate mess of regret and guilt and paths not taken. He opened his mouth again, but the words didn't come.

He wanted to say he was sorry that he'd let fear dictate his thinking.

He wanted to tell him how much he regretted listening to his imagination, rather than his brother.

Most of all he wanted to say how badly he'd let Scott down, and how much he would do to try to remedy that.

But Scott was looking at him, and now the affection was all straight in his direction.

"Let's not," he said, gently, with that uncanny ability Scott sometimes had to read John's mood, if not his mind, and understand his need. "I know we should debrief. I know there's things we need to say. Let's skip it, for now." He shifted slightly on the bed, and winced. "We've just got our little brothers back."

John nodded. He didn't know if he was relieved or frustrated, but he knew Scott was right.

There was space, now, to let discussions unfold in their own way, and in their own time, when the bruising, physical and mental, had receded.

Something caught his attention across Scott, and he saw that Virgil was awake again and watching them.

One of the things that kept reassuring his tired mind that this was not some desperate product of his own imagination's devising was the untidy beard that crawled halfway up Virgil's cheeks. It reminded John of an old fur trapper from the wilds of Canada. Above that, two dark eyes stared at them, unblinking from a face otherwise both pale and scraped red-raw in places.

It wasn't his brother's smoothest look. Although if asked, John would say it was the best he'd ever seen him.

And he knew exactly what Virgil's first words would be, even before he said them.

"What did you do?"

This, in a voice as raw and scratchy as his face, was to Scott.

John looked at his older brother to see what Virgil was seeing, for the first time.

Scott's face, what could be seen of it, was a mess of yellow and purple bruises. His one unobscured eye was bloodshot, so that the blue was startling against it. The bruising travelled down Scott's neck and then seemed to bleed out across his chest, which was covered in thin latticed strips of what looked like plastic but was actually light, high tensile material that both supported his ribs and helped them to expand and contract in order to ward off pneumonia. On one shoulder was another gel patch; the bruising apparent from beneath that was still black.

Virgil the medic would be freaking out.

Scott breathed out a soft laugh.

"Never mind me. What did you do?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"No, I don't mean that. Where the hell have you been?"

"North Sea, just now."

"Before that, wise-guy."

"Let's see… Thunderbird Two, Thunderbird Four, and a great little shelter we called home in an old shepherd's cellar." Virgil gave them both a grin. "We saw what you'd done to liven up the place. Rona, remember it?"

And John knew Virgil wouldn't understand why Scott gave a sound like he'd been punched.

He sat up and took up the slack to give Scott the moment he needed.

"Gordon's doing okay, Virgil."

Virgil hesitated, still eyeing Scott with concern, then nodded.

"I know. I mean, I didn't know for sure but – somehow, once we got into One, I just knew we were both going to be okay. Not too scientific of me, I know, but there is something about that 'bird that - well, just says everything's going to be alright."

Scott cleared his throat, obviously making an effort.

"Even when Johnny's driving?"

Virgil chuckled.

"Yeah, that was a turn up. Ginger Space Lord right there in One. Oh, you did know that's what Gordon calls you?"

"No, I really didn't." John smiled. "He can call me anything he likes once he wakes up and feels well enough to give me grief again."

"We never stopped looking." Scott blurted it out, startling John, but Virgil just kept smiling as he shook his head slowly.

"I know you didn't. We knew, the two of us, we knew we just had to survive long enough for someone to come find us, and whenever I pictured it in my head, it was always you and One coming over the waves for us."

And that was just completely false.

John didn't know what it was in Virgil's expression, in his voice, that telegraphed it to him. But it was as clear to him as if Virgil had turned to him directly and flat out stated, we thought we were going to die. We thought you were never going to find us.

All Virgil had told him and Penelope so far was a light, 'we got to camp out and be adventurers' tale with a few minor picaresque forays featuring Gordon and a sturdy frontiersman role for himself. Then they'd disabled the EMF weapon and somewhere in there Gordon had been shot and they ended up in the sea. Good times!

Nothing to see here. Move along.

A low, cold suspicion began to foment in his belly.

Scott's expression tightened.

"Only it wasn't. Not for days. The EMF cloud, and that weapon of theirs, and – it took days."

"But International Rescue got there in the end. Look at you. Look at what you did to yourself to try and find us." A flicker of confusion crossed his face. "Though, if that's some kind of crash – how come One's still in one piece?"

John crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised, suspicion put aside – for now.

"Will you tell him, or will I?"

"Ah. Yes. Well." One side of Scott's mouth twisted a little. "When I said we never stopped looking – that took some unexpected turns. Virgil – you ever been in a Spitfire?"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Drowning, not Waving

Notes:

Brilliant beta again, thanks Soleil_Lumiere.  
Two more chapters after this, folks.

Chapter Text

Virgil was alive.

It wasn't until long after their oh so casual back and forth in the ward that Scott felt the true realisation of the fact sink in.

Virgil was alive, and it changed everything.

Scott took up the burden of responsibility for his brothers as each one came into his life as unthinkingly as another child might expect privilege or poverty. It was just the way the world was constituted, to him; each brother was the universe's gift to him, and so he had to look out for him. It was never articulated, never discussed; it never required any kind of parental reinforcement. And so, because it was unexamined by anyone, most especially Scott, no one considered the inexorable weight of that self-imposed burden, either.

Each brother, in their own way, alleviated that pressure. John, with his cool and kind analysis that brought Scott back from crisis thinking. Gordon, with his ability to find and bring joy and to mock Scott's worries into something more manageable. Alan's pure energy and excitement that sparked life into Scott and kept him from the jadedness that comes with constant duty.

But of all of them, it was Virgil who helped ease his burden most by sharing it.

Virgil was the hand on his shoulder, the steady look as things went to hell, the calm voice on the end of the comms that threw him a lifeline as surely as the physical one tethering him to his 'bird. Virgil stood beside him, sturdy as an oak, and Scott leant into his strength without thinking, every day.

When Virgil was missing – well, Scott stretched out to lean against that solid, imperturbable assurance and found nothing but whistling North Sea gales. The balance, the belief that his younger brother gave him was gone, and he floundered as a result, an unmoored craft adrift from the harbour in choppy seas.

It challenged him in ways he hadn't begun to process.

And then, suddenly, there Virgil was, looking roughened and pale but alive. Brought back to him. And the first thing he did was to extend that strength once more to Scott.

What did you do?

Translated from Virgil-speak; what do you need?

It was so typical of him that somehow they fell straight back into their old pattern of being, and at no point did Scott say anything of what that meant to him.

Scott's body was covered in site-specific pain patches, small squares of material bearing a thousand microscopic needles that inserted analgesics so acute that as long as he stayed relatively still he felt only a dull pain in his head, his shoulder, his ribs and pelvis and thigh and calf. Site-specifics, S2s as they were called, were the most significant breakthrough in analgesia in the last fifty years, and his mind was markedly more alert than the heavy drugs of the past would have allowed him to be. But his body was suffused with chemicals nonetheless, and they brought with them a cottony distancing from the world.

No pain; but no joy, either.

In his mind, Scott had rehearsed the moment of finding his brothers, over and over again as a kind of mantra against blank screens and silent comms. He'd be in Thunderbird One, of course. He'd get a hit on the scanner, would swoop in a breathtaking dive to halt just above them, then he'd swing out in his pilot's seat and lean down for Virgil to grab his hand. "You need a lift?" or "Fancy seeing you here?" or any one of a dozen cute lines on his lips, and he'd see his brothers' faces light up with relief and happiness and the world would be set to rights again.

And none of that happened.

A curtain was pulled back and Virgil was there, in a bed beside him.

Was that why he felt so restless, so dissatisfied? Was it somehow an anti-climax? Was it pure ego that demanded he should be the one to save his brothers, and do so gloriously?

No. That was a child's thinking, and perhaps nine year old Scott might have indulged it, but USAF Major Tracy was far too aware of the inconsistencies and unfairness of fate, far too ready to gratefully accept good fortune when it deigned to take in those he loved. He'd take a win however it came, every time.

He'd known, from the second he heard the news, that he needed to see Gordon for himself. That was a given, and the pulse of that need grew more urgent as the day wore on, as the evening fell and the long hours of a hospital night crawled by. Of course he trusted John and Virgil. The doctors he grilled mercilessly to the point they probably wished he was still unconscious. But until he was by his brother's bedside, until he could feel the warmth of that grin and the strength of that hand – yeah, seeing Gordon was simply essential, and would happen today no matter what it took.

And still, that wasn't what was needling him more effectively than his S2s.

Scott liked clarity. An order of battle, a problem and a solution. He rarely read fiction, for that reason, or if he did it was straight forward tales of action that he could lose himself in without losing his way. Anything that depended on the wayward paths of the human soul for drama had him throwing the book across the room. It was Virgil who lived in the gray. He saw not just two sides but twenty, and he calmly introduced his big brother to each one as needed. People talked of 'losing a right arm' when someone they needed was no longer there. But when Scott lost the brother who led him through the labyrinthine ways of his brothers' hearts, he lost something far more important than an arm. He lost his moral lodestone, his physical counterweight, and the nothingness that remained to him was so much more debilitating than the loss of any physical limb could ever be.

Yet Virgil the dependable, the oak, was back. So why did he still feel as if something was missing?

Maybe he needed all his brothers together. Alan and Gordon here in the room with him. And Grandma, maybe her never-ending love and good sense, as sweet and tough as her pastry, was what he lacked. Maybe Kayo needed to come back and give him some of her straight-talking sisterly affection.

Maybe he just needed to go home.

Scott groaned, just as Virgil came back into the room from the large shower cubicle in the corner.

"You okay there, Scott? Need your S2s adjusted?"

"I'm fine. Need to get out of my own head for a bit. Want to go grab some chilli-dogs and a couple of beers, catch the game?"

Virgil chuckled, that easy humour of someone who was able to swan about the private ward in a bathrobe rather than being hosed down in place on a gel bed.

"I don't think Scotland does chilli-dogs. Deep-fried chocolate is available, I'm told. And the game is likely to be soccer. Or rugby."

"I'm okay with either."

A hooked thumb pointed to the screen that took up half the wall. "And you can watch either, right there."

Virgil one, Scott zero. Not that his suggestion had been anything other than sheer fantasy. He knew his limitations. Others, however, chose to overstate them.

"Okay, I'll do you a deal. No more talk about bars, if you'll just grab me a wheelchair and we can go visit Gordon."

"Sure." Virgil was amiable, which meant Virgil held all the cards. "Soon as the doctors give me the say-so, I'm on it. Shower's free, John."

"Argh." There was another reason Scott thought of Virgil as his oak. He was as stubbornly unmovable as one.

"Thanks. Think I need to warm up." John had talked about going to a gym this morning, getting back into his regimen. Watching him creak his way into the cubicle put that argument to bed without either of his brothers saying anything.

Virgil was to be discharged this morning, and it was clear to Scott, stuck in bed and covered in plastic strips and patches and bandages that his brother was revelling in the fact. He couldn't blame him, and he knew Virgil would spend most of the day here with them all anyway, but his own impatience to see Gordon, collect all his brothers under his wing and just be gone back to Tracy Island, was palpable.

Doctors came. Doctors muttered. Doctors spoke of the need for stability as bones mended. Doctors hurried away as Scott growled at them.

The morning settled into a pattern. Virgil went to visit Gordon, and Scott fumed at his own immobility. Virgil came back, John took his turn, and Scott glowered at the lack of a wheelchair.

By lunchtime, Scott stopped stewing and started actively agitating for his brothers' help.

It didn't go well.

"Gordon's doing fine, Scott. He wants to see you, too, but you're both just going to have to wait. He sends his love, and a kind of cackle I won't begin to describe when he heard you'd busted your pelvis."

"I just need five minutes."

"You heard the doctors, Scott."

"And you're missing the point."

"Oh, I get your point. I just think you're probably gonna want a mended pelvis at some stage."

"I can mend my damned pelvis any time I want!"

Even John smirked behind his scientific journal at that one.

It was getting harder to maintain a professional manner when all those around him were actively resisting every reasonable request to just let him get off his bed. Scott knew his scowl was getting deeper by the way Virgil's frown was matching it and the way John buried his head further in his reading.

Drago Kasun dropped by after lunch, just in time to hear Scott complain, loudly, that his head was just fine, he could get into a wheelchair just fine, and he didn't see why the hell he had to wait for some overpaid medical flunky to come and tell him he could move his own perfectly fine body, thank you very much.

"G'day to you, too," the young pilot said cheerfully as he came through the doors. "Wow. You're a great patient, huh?"

John, now typing on a tablet as he lay on the top of his bed, just raised one eyebrow and a smile in his direction before returning, apparently unaffected by Scott's impassioned pleas, to his scientific paper.

Virgil, sitting by Scott's bedside, was clearly more annoyed by his brother's completely justifiable and totally defensible attitude. He looked up at Drago.

"Are you qualified to tell this particular jackass that we are not going to help him out of bed until the doctors give us an all clear?"

"No," said Scott, immediately hopeful, "but he's just the kind of guy who could spring a fellow pilot. Right?"

"Whoa." Drago raised his hands in defence. "I'm just dropping by to let you know your little bit of flotsam is back from the fabulous Faroes. And to throw in a thanks for getting out there – in a bloody Spitfire, seriously mate, deadset legend – to do it. I mean, I get that I was a bit of collateral salvage, but however it went down, well, cheers to you."

In a day of increasing frustration, it was undeniably good to see Drago again. He seemed utterly unaware of the deep red line, a barely healed gash, that crossed his forehead, and he moved in a way that belied what Scott knew of the battering he'd taken in the escape pod. Colonel Casey had updated him yesterday.

"You're welcome. I was very glad to do it." There were favours owed here, and Scott was not above using the fact. "And all I want to do now is get onto a wheelchair and get very sedately transported down the hall to my little brother's room. Ten minutes. Fifteen tops. Not asking too much, am I?" When it came to sensing those not averse to a little rule bending, Scott had an excellent radar – calibrated by years of being older brother to the younger one in question.

Drago glanced at Virgil, as if acknowledging the adult in the room, which was galling but showed excellent strategic sense.

"Don't think we've met." He put out his hand, first to John, then to Virgil. "Drago Kasun. I was the nong who got shot down early in the piece, spent a few days taking in the sea air on the scenic tour. I'm guessing you're John and that means you're probably Virgil, right?"

After John and Drago shook hands, Virgil stood and took the Australian's hand willingly. "Good to meet you. And thanks for what you did in the search. Meant a lot." Scott could actually see that the grip tightened. "And no, he's not going anywhere, he's got a broken pelvis, we're waiting on the doctor's approval to shift his bossy ass. Which probably won't happen for a couple of days."

"Ah. Right." Drago took back his hand, looking like it had taken on a new shape under Virgil's grip. "Sorry, Tracy. I'm just out of the sickbay myself, don't want to be put back there."

"Guh." Scott put both hands to his head.

"But if it helps, Colonel Casey told me about Gordon, so I popped my head in on the way up here, introduced myself."

That was better. Initiative. He knew he liked this guy.

"How is he? I know he's awake."

"Sounds like he's doing pretty well." But something shifted in the pilot's face; the openness that was its main feature clouded a little. "He's quiet. But y'know, you gotta expect that."

"Quiet? Gordon?" Scott turned to Virgil. "Okay. Come on. You heard that. He says he's quiet."

"I saw him this morning," Virgil said, calmly. "And yesterday. He's recovering from a bullet wound. He'll be fine."

"He's quiet, Virgil. That doesn't worry you just a bit?"

"Nope. Lady Penelope's got him. He's fine."

"That amazing girl in there? Is that his girlfriend?"

"No," said Scott, as Virgil said, "Yes," and John said, "What?"

"Riiight." Drago grinned. "Cool. Yeah, no, you gotta expect he'll take a bit of a while to get over being shot. Never easy to have someone point a gun at you."

Everything to this point had been an exaggerated play of grumpiness and resistance, but at Drago's words, both Scott and Virgil sobered.

"What makes you say that?" John, dismissing the girlfriend waffle, and honing in on the important point of the conversation. "Did he say something?"

It was clear Drago had little experience of being under the intense stare of three brothers before. He blinked and straightened.

"Uh – I guess, just the way he was? Pretty subdued, pretty flat, you know? Not how Colonel Casey described him to me."

"Flat? Subdued?" Scott sent his most imperious glare at Virgil. "Are we really going to have this conversation again? Help me out of here, now!"

Even Virgil looked a little perturbed.

"He seemed okay this morning. Seriously, Scott. Yeah, he's not bouncing about, but he cracked a couple of jokes."

As Virgil spoke, Drago shook his head slightly, and Scott pounced.

"What are you thinking?"

Drago looked uncomfortable, for the first time since Scott had met him.

"Look, don't mind me. You know him, he's your brother." Scott's one good eye stayed fixed on him, and finally he gave a reluctant shrug. "He just had that look. You know it. Kids get it when they've been in action, sometimes. Old-timers called it the thousand yard stare. Just a bit too much going on behind the eyes, you know? Probably just me."

"Right. I will discharge myself AMA this very second, or you both help me into a wheelchair."

John sighed, and packed away the tablet. "May as well, Virgil. We're not getting any peace now."

Scott refrained from pointing out that John had that worried crease in his forehead that belied the wearied tone.

"Great. Good. Fine. Just find a wheelchair and we'll go. Virgil, I promise – just twenty minutes to see him for myself."

He knew how potent that appeal was, and how little Virgil had to defend against it. His brother got up, still a little gingerly, and went to the doorway, as if merely by looking he could summon the doctor.

"Are there any doctors in sight?"

Virgil shook his head.

"Good. We're going."

And hallelujah, it seemed that finally everyone was on the same page. Drago disappeared down the corridor to return with a wheelchair and a definitely mischievous, if not downright guilty, look about him.

"We better be quick," he said. "The old bloke in there might be looking for it soon."

"Thunderbirds are So Gone," John muttered under his breath.

"Right," and Scott held his arms up, resolutely refusing to cry out or wince at the pain that sheared through his shoulder at the movement, S2s or no. "Get me in there."

Between the three of them, they managed it. When he was finally sitting in the wheelchair, he let out a sharp breath.

"Good," he said, his voice a little cracked, "now let's go. I can't wheel this thing myself."

"Oh, you are going to owe us both so, so much," and Virgil grabbed the handles in a way that conveyed exactly how unhappy he was with this escapade.

"I'll leave you to it," said Drago, grinning. It was clear that this kind of thing suited him down to the ground. "Gotta get back on base. You stay – well, I can't say stay out of trouble, now, can I?" He gave a cheerful wave, but Scott caught that shadow again as he turned away.

Kids who saw too much.

He needed to get to his little brother, now.

Just one corridor, a lift, and past another couple of rooms – and there was Lady Penelope, coming out of a room with a look on her face he'd never seen there before.

"Lady Penelope!"

"Scott." A quick flick of her hair and Scott would be hard-pressed to even remember what he'd just seen, so careful and studied was her expression. "You're up and about. That is good news."

He heard Virgil give an ill-concealed snort behind him.

"Please excuse my brother, Lady Penelope. He learned his manners from a warthog."

"Are you heading out?" Scott couldn't see Virgil's expression – twisting around was completely impossible for him just now – but he sounded surprised.

"Oh, you know. Fresh air. Just for a minute."

"Fair enough. We'll take over baby-sitting duties for a bit." John gave her his gentlest smile. "If Gordon's half as bad a patient as this one, you'll need the break."

"He's not a bad patient at all, really." Penelope hesitated. "Just – it may be I'm not the person he needs in there right now."

Virgil's voice, deep and sure behind him.

"I find that hard to believe."

And there it was again – that look he'd never seen on Lady Penelope before.

Flustered. Bothered. Troubled in a way she rarely ever indulged.

"Scott, I'm very glad you're here. It may be you he needs to – well, to talk to."

"Me? Gordon talk to me?" But the rejection was an automatic one, and even as he gave it a darker possibility began to grow. Drago's words hammered in his brain. The thought of Gordon needing to talk to him, particularly, brought a peculiar twist to his belly, and the face of young Clary Davitt, a pilot in his squadron, came immediately to mind. Bright-eyed, eager Davitt, first to volunteer for anything, first into mischief or mayhem or dogfight. The bane of Scott's life as Major, until he wasn't any more. Until fire and death and the taking of brutal decisions turned Clary Davitt into the silent man in the corner, the one who shook until the meds kicked in at 0800 hours each day.

Suddenly, he couldn't get in that room fast enough.

"Virgil – "

"On it."

How he'd missed that understanding at his side.

John was farewelling Penelope as he and Virgil swept through the doors –

To be met by the sight of an apparently sanguine Gordon, heavily supported but upright and focused, busily flicking through TV channels on the wall-screen. He glanced over at their entrance, and at once his face suffused with joy.

"Scotty! They said you were too smushed to get up! Knew those docs wouldn't keep you down!"

"Gordon!" Scott forgot his hands and grabbed for the wheels to push himself over faster. A hiss as his burned hands objected, and then Virgil was batting them away and quickly pushing Scott over to where he could be in arm's reach of his little brother. Gordon laughed, a little breathlessly.

"God, it's good to see you. Wow, Virge, I guess I can believe we're really back now. Or I will, soon as I get a proper Scott Tracy Stink-eye. Although you can do one real well, now that you've got that arch-villain eye patch thing happening." This to Scott, who grinned back at him.

"I'm only allowed half an hour in this thing, so I won't waste it giving you a hard time. Not until we're both out of here."

"More than fair. So. I guess Virgil's told you all about our adventures?"

"I've got the Reader's Digest version. But there are lots of bits I'm kinda hazy on." Scott tried to turn, but couldn't; Virgil, realising, moved around and to the chair in front of him. John took the chair on the other side of the bed. "I haven't heard how you got Four out of the module. Must have been some damned smart thinking, Virgil."

"Must have," Virgil agreed, and sent a solemn wink to Gordon. "Took a genius under pressure to come up with that."

"Yeah, okay. Don't go getting a swelled head on me there, bro."

"Oh, I'm not." Virgil gave a sudden grin. "You say you're a little hazy? I'm a little hazy on the first four days we were on that island."

Scott frowned.

"Are you telling me the module was shifted out in the crash? Just good luck?"

Gordon laughed, a little high-pitched.

"I love how that's your second alternative."

"Wait, what – you did it?"

"Feel the burn," murmured John.

"Seriously? Gordon, you got the module clear?" A flush of pride overcame the deadening of the drugs in the way only worry had managed so far. "Way to go, little bro!"

"Ha! Remember when Alan tried to make that a thing?"

"Oh, yeah, he used to say that whenever he did anything. At all." Virgil winced at the memory. "Let's leave that dead and buried, shall we?"

"Agreed," said Scott. "Wow. So how'd you do it?"

"Ah, that's a traumatic memory for Virgil. No wonder he's repressed it. He blew a hole in Two's windshield. Flooded Two so the module would float clear, then I flooded the module so we could open it up and Four would float clear. One, two, simple as."

John's eyebrows were raised again.

"That's neat work. Can't have been easy."

"Especially when his brother was completely useless." Virgil tapped his forehead. "This bruise was earned in combat. I had a pretty severe concussion. Couldn't think straight for days. And no, Scott, you don't get to hyper-ventilate about it now. It's done, I'm better, let's move on."

"Did you know about this?" Scott demanded of John. "Has he been scanned?"

"Uh – yes, I did, and yes, he has. Untwist your panties, Scooter."

That was so unexpected, coming from John, that Virgil and Scott just gaped. Then Gordon's hoot of laughter triggered their own.

"Okay, okay." Scott felt lighter than he had for – god, for weeks. They'd been under the pump even before Two's disappearance. This moment of silliness with his brothers – this was a moment of grace. "No tightening of underwear allowed. Got it."

John's mouth quirked. "I have a feeling we're going to need that tattooed across your forehead if we're ever to hear all the details."

Gordon shifted a little on the bed. "What I want to know is, when are we gonna go and get Four? Thunderbird One could lift her, easy."

"Whoa. Hasten slowly. Let's just get you healed first." Scott knew there was thing called hypocrisy, he just didn't feel he needed to acknowledge it. Ever.

"But Scoooott," Gordon began, and Virgil groaned.

"I had this for seven days. In close confinement. The concussion was a blessing."

"I'm sure you discussed many profound and wise things," said John.

"We befriended a shark," said Gordon, helpfully. Scott nearly gripped the wheelchair again.

"You did what now?"

"A Great White. I rubbed noses with him."

"No, he didn't," said Virgil to Scott. "Gordon, Scott's on blood pressure pills. Can you try and tell him the g-rated version?"

Gordon snorted. "There was no chance of an X-rated one. Couldn't even rub out a – "

"And moving along," said John, mildly. "Blood pressure, remember?"

"Okay. We went and saw your lighthouse. You were mean to it."

"I was," Scott agreed.

"And I made Virgil the coolest shoes ever, which he spurned because he doesn't appreciate either fashion or conservation."

"They were kelp. Chunks of kelp." Virgil shrugged. "They squished."

"I prepared amazing sushi."

"We ate raw fish."

"We sunbathed."

"Gordon nearly lost all his clothes."

"I made a net."

"He went spearfishing in the North Sea. By himself. Idiot."

Gordon was grinning, Virgil fake-scowling, and Scott's heart relaxed. These two had always been a double act, straight man to flim-flam, and here it was again, intact. Drago Kasun didn't know Gordon.

His kid brother was okay.

"Met a seal," Gordon continued.

"Oh, god, don't let him get started on the seals. You know what he's like about seals." Virgil covered his face.

"Not seals plural, seal singular. A singular seal. He introduced me to Bert."

"Who's Bert?" John, bemused.

"No!" Virgil glared at Gordon, who beamed beatifically at him in return. "You'll have Scott in cardiac arrest."

"Wow. If that little story upsets him, it must have been boring as hell without me."

"Trust me," said Scott, "it was anything but boring. I learned to fly a Spitfire, pure on the job training. And then I did a bombing run on a sub. Boring!"

"Bombing?" Gordon's tone changed.

Virgil nodded. "I think we can call it evens on the adventure stakes. You should have seen the storm we had. Wind, rain, hailstones – I tell you, I've seen tornadoes that had less kick in 'em."

And he would have been looking at his middle brother, ordinarily. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Virgil was gesturing to illustrate the size of the tempest, and he would have followed his hands as they spread. But in some twist of fate he happened to keep his eyes on Gordon.

He saw it.

The shadow that Drago mentioned, the bleakness that covered his little brother's features for a split second.

Virgil faltered, and stopped.

"I guess you had to be there," he finally said.

Of course Virgil would catch it, too. The family lightning rod, right?

John was frowning at Virgil's splintered recital.

"That would be about the fourth day on the island, right?" He indicated Scott with his head. "We came this close to investigating Rona Island."

"Oh, yeah." Perky Gordon was back. "Did Virgil tell you? I so heard you, Scooter! I heard a plane, in the distance, and Virgil didn't believe me because he was all in his Broody Mc Broodface phase. I was out there, listening, and he was all 'no, can't be a plane because EMF and blah blah' and I said I heard it, sounded like – ha ha ha! Oh, wow, Scotty, I called your Spitfire a crop-duster!"

A sad, slow ache began in his belly, his chest.

He saw it.

He knew this Gordon.

He remembered, suddenly and with a sick sense of grief, a hospital room three years ago, and a young man facing the choice between quadriplegia, or agony in a cure. He remembered the slick jokes, the scornful dismissals, the quick-fire reassurances and deft avoidance.

This was Gordon, tap-dancing.

He sent an agonised look to Virgil, and met one coming back at him. His brother was as sensitive as a Geiger-counter to the slightest shifts in mood among the Tracy boys; he would catch this, the underlying grief or sadness or whatever the hell it was that left Gordon here, drowning on dry land, while his brothers stood around and watched.

And oh, he was good at this, his kid brother. Gordon was very good. Because Scott and Virgil had been too open in their concern, and Gordon read that and ditched the top hat and tails, shifted the whole act down to a soft shoe shuffle.

"Yeah, I guess we've both got stories. Just glad we're all here together now, right? Can't wait to see Alan and tell him."

"Yes." Scott always found it hard to dissemble. He glanced again at Virgil. He watched as his brother tried to bring his game face back into play, and wondered if his own face looked as stricken.

Gordon continued, confident smile in place. "Well, I suppose you'll need to get back. Real good seeing you, Scott. I'm gonna be up in a day or two, then I can come annoy you properly."

There should be something he could say here, right? He'd had these conversations, late at night with a beer or whisky in hand, the mess lights low and defenses down, with young men and women crowded by memories like knives and nowhere to escape their slicing. He'd spoken of duty done, of families at home, of futures yet to be reached and promotions at hand. He'd summoned up courage, and loyalty, and gratitude, esprit de corps and promises kept.

What could he give Gordon, in the too-bright glare of hospital lights, sober and in civvies? What could he point to? Whatever had happened, it wasn't between Virgil and Gordon, so the cost of survival hadn't been their brotherhood. What could possibly be doing this to a boy so sunny-natured he'd already overcome far worse in his lifetime?

And that was the issue, right there.

Amazing it had taken this long. He'd claim head injury, but still…

"What don't I know?"

He was eyeing the younger brother, but Gordon, the consummate performer, didn't bat an eyelash. It was Virgil's face that stiffened, Virgil's hands that tightened.

Virgil, his trusted right hand man who was lying to him in everything but deed.

Now he knew, at last, what had so bothered him all night. Virgil was back by his side, but that oak tree brother of his was hollow with hurt. To lean on him would be an act of cruelty.

Gordon, the little shit, was laying back with an air of obliviousness.

"Lots of stuff. How Virgil made the coolest water supply thing by our shack, and then how I made a little rock-pool to keep the seafood fresh. You know, maybe we should open up a restaurant on Rona. 'The most remote restaurant in the world'. Can you imagine? People would fly in especially to have freshest seafood, and maybe we'd give discounts if anyone went skinny dipping before they ate. 'Cos let me tell you, it is cold in them thar waters."

"Enough!" Scott was done playing. His fear was morphing into anger. It had only taken ten minutes with Gordon.

"Scott?" John said his name carefully, as if stepping on fragile ice in heavy boots. "What's going on?"

"I take it you don't know? Or are you in on this, too?"

John spread his hands. "I'm aware that you're going red in the face which means you're frightened about something and have decided to be angry instead. I'm aware that Virgil looks like he's going to be sick. I know Gordon's putting on some kind of pantomime for our benefit. If you like, I can add in that I think Virgil is covering something up and that Gordon said or did something to upset Lady Penelope. But no, I don't know what is at the heart of all this."

For the second time in twenty-four hours, John had managed to wrong-foot Scott.

"I'm not covering anything up – " Virgil began, but he sounded tentative, and Scott switched his glare from John.

"Bullshit. Bullshit, Virgil. What the hell happened on that island?"

"Wow," and this was Gordon's redoubt, the place he went to as a very last resort. Deepest sarcasm, laid on thick and targeted to a nicety as he turned his kindly insight into weaponry out of sheer desperation. "I know you don't like to not be in control of things, but you know what? Virgil and I managed just fine all by our little selves. You can put away the inquisition, your fuehrer-ship."

Scott sat back. He folded his bandaged hands on his lap, and nodded.

"Alright, Gordon. Gordo. Here's a dare for you. Ready?" He wiped all expression from his face. "Tell me there is nothing you know I need to know. Look me in the eye and tell me there is nothing bothering you. I dare you."

"Oh, grow up, Scott." Gordon looked away, disgusted. Scott didn't blink.

"Double-dog dare you."

Virgil interceded. He couldn't help it. "Scott – "

"What about you, Virgil? Are you going to lie to me, too?"

"No one's…" but Virgil's voice trailed away, and Scott nodded again. He kept focused on Gordon, who was very deliberately not looking back.

"So what is it, Gordon? Gonna piss in my face and tell me it's raining?"

Gordon's chin stuck out, mulishly. It should have looked childish, and was, in a way. In fact, Scott knew it for what it was.

His little brother was fighting back tears. Just as he had done years ago, when Scott would stand over him and demand answers and Gordon, small and scared but endlessly defiant, would ball his fists and clench his jaw and refuse. For hours. Until Scott felt like the worst kind of heel on the planet and abandoned the quest, none the wiser.

His anger drained away.

This wasn't what he wanted, none of it. He didn't want to bully his two traumatised young brothers who were doing their damnedest to cope with something they were unwilling to share with him.

Slowly, he opened his own damaged hands in a gesture of peace.

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry." That had Virgil, grim-faced with worry, raise his eyebrows in surprise. Gordon kept looking away. "I don't want to fight. But there is something here. Something you're both upset about."

"He's not – " Gordon began.

"Gordon isn't – " Virgil said. They both looked at each other.

Scott smiled grimly. "Well, if you won't talk to me, at least talk to each other. Whatever it is, it's likely to come out at some point. Keeping it to yourself will just end up damaging you and the people around you. I know. Firsthand."

That got their attention, but neither one said anything. He sighed.

"I'm just saying – if you need an ear, I've got one good one left."

Virgil didn't react to that, but Gordon gave a watery half-smile. He couldn't help but appreciate humour, however bad.

"And now, having made a complete mess of my first visit, I am going back to my bed to think about the fact that my pelvis is cracked and I probably just screwed it up some more by being a jackass."

"That's the only time you're gonna be using screwed and your pelvis in the same sentence for a while," and if it was slow and the voice a little thick, at least Gordon was accepting the self-castigation for the olive branch it was.

"Gordon? I'm here for you, kiddo. No matter what. Nothing you could have done that would faze me. Just remember that."

"Huh. Finally," said John. "Could have said that twenty minutes ago. Alright, I'm taking you back before you get weepy." He grabbed Scott's wheelchair handles and pulled him around ready to face the door. "Behave, you two."

"No, you go, Virgil. I'm kinda tired." He looked it too, Gordon's brown eyes rimmed with red and his face pale.

Virgil hesitated.

"You sure? I could stay, play some cards or something?"

"No. Honestly. Go. I'll be okay."

"Come on, Virgil." Scott couldn't turn his head to look, but he heard Virgil get up.

"Okay, get some rest, bro."

"Yeah. You, too."

Virgil joined them at the door as they headed into the corridor. They walked without speaking to the lift, where they waited as it inevitably headed for the basement first.

Finally, John broke the silence.

"Right. Who's going to be the first to say it?"

Wearily, Scott raised his head, dreading the answer.

"Say what, John?"

"What the hell is this thing about Gordon and Lady Penelope?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16** **: Raise a glass**

 **Notes:**

A nice long one. Some comfort, some hurt, but we're getting there. I hope you enjoy it.  
Great beta again by Solly-Lu, seriously, the gaffes she catches!

 **Chapter Text**

An ache, the shadow of one he'd had before; first for Mom, then for Dad. Something dull and hard at the pit of his stomach that gnawed like a hunger he could never satisfy, that clawed like a fear he could never gentle. It made no sense he had it now. This time, his brothers and sister were all coming home. This time, Fate decided the Tracys had paid their dues and let them all slip through whatever it was Fate had – talons or paws or webs, whatever it was it had reached out those other times and used to snare the people he loved.

Fancy thinking for a kid who liked to go fast and help people. That was pretty much all there was to see of him, so why he had to get all metaphorical and philosophical and any other sesquipedalian word for 'thinking too much fancy shit'… Gordon would tease him for days.

Gordon had to get here to tease him for days.

It was going to happen. Everything, everyone, said so. Virgil, from the comms in One, calling to say they were locked and loaded, be in the air in ten. Brains, giving their ETA and heading off for his first shower without sitting in the shower-chair. Grandma, busying herself even more than she already was, and putting on some music from the Paleolithic era, blaring it through the house to let everyone know her hips don't lie. Whenever Grandma started playing music from her youth, it was time to run up the warning flag. It meant she was getting emotional, sloppily sentimental, and if she put on Adele that signalled the need for whiskey and a cuddle. Kayo or Virgil usually got tagged for that one.

Sometimes Gordon, surprisingly patient when he wanted to be. And none of them were home yet, so Alan just hoped Grandma went next to Garbage, and left Adele and Nine Inch Nails in the shed.

Alan, meanwhile and in the continuation of an ongoing pattern, had nothing important to do.

Well, there was one thing. It managed to be both creepy and futile, so yay. But he'd done it every day since John called to say Two had dropped out of existence, and if he didn't do it now, who knows what might happen.

They weren't home yet.

Virgil said he had no time for superstition. He would be all understanding and stuff about Alan's need to do this, but he wouldn't get it, not really. John was more cautious about dismissing anything, so he'd just shrug and say the universe is a wacky place, so you do you. Scott and Gordon though – they'd accept it. Whatever works, do it. Scott had Dad's old college rowing badge pinned on the inside of his flying suit on every mission he ever flew for the USAF. Gordon had his lucky duck, won for him by John on an old arcade claw machine the day he broke the state record (freestyle, then, butterfly specialisation came later). Gordon went to every swim meet with that duck, and whenever anyone called him lucky, he'd say "No, I'm not, but I've got a lucky duck." At celebrations afterwards, and if Dad wasn't in hearing, it was a fuckin' truckin' everlovin' lucky duck.

Gordon would know why he was doing this. Scott would nod in that way he had of giving silent support to whatever weird thing his little brother did.

So with his brothers' unconscious approval, Alan went into Virgil's room.

Virgil's room was painted in a soft colour scheme of mauves and greys that might surprise someone who saw him stomp around in his red plaid all day. But Virgil used his room to relax and not engage with his weird brain. He saw colours in everything – music, people, the alphabet – and he poured all of that out in a kind of organised chaos in his painting and music. When he got back to his room, he once explained to Alan, he liked calm.

There were a few photos – his mother, nothing else of the family, mostly of people they'd rescued who sent them with notes of thanks to International Rescue's official post box in London, where they were collected and passed on by Penelope. Jimenez from Iquique; Nia from Lào Cai. Corey from Alice Springs. Virgil said they helped when he had to get up at 0100 for a rescue. Pictures of his family's ugly mugs wouldn't do it, because he'd be seeing them in the next few anyway, and they'd probably look as happy as he was at getting dragged out of bed, whereas the photos all reminded him of the end result.

That was Virgil. He just liked seeing other people happy.

Alan went over to Virgil's bed, and he did the stupid thing he'd done Day Two of Kayo's Operation Hilang. He lifted up Virgil's pillows, took off the silver-grey pillow slips, and put on fresh ones. Then he replaced the pillows on the bed, smoothed them two times each – no more – and came back out.

One down.

Gordon's room next.

Gordon's room was like walking into a tequila sunrise cocktail. One wall was painted red; one yellow; one a bright burnt orange. The fourth wall was a window, with some much needed greenery and a brilliant view of the sea. There were other rooms that had a good view, but something about this one – its funky shape, the cathedral window up top, its position right at the side – well, everyone had wanted dibs on this room when it was being planned, even Scott, who said he didn't really care and then went "Wow" when he walked into it and immediately began a campaign to get it. Finally, Dad said there'd be a lottery. Each of the bedrooms was numbered, and each one got a pick. All the rooms were nice, after all. John said he wouldn't be using his often enough to warrant a 'sea room', so he abstained from the lottery, and then Virgil said he didn't care, he just wanted one that was quiet, so he and John got the pick of the rooms further back, into the island's bones itself.

He and Scott and Gordon got into the lottery, and Dad picked out the number 3. Alan's number.

He'd expected something dramatic from Gordon, but his brother just laughed ruefully and said, "Just you wait, when you least expect it I'll swap our rooms over." He was joking, and Scott ruffled Alan's hair and said, good on you, kiddo.

So that was that.

Alan didn't care about the colour scheme, he was going to cover the walls in posters, so it got painted a kind of cream colour and that was fine. They all headed back to Kansas while the painting and fitting out was done. It would be another six months before they'd all move in.

And then Gordon joined WASP, and there were delays with the work on Tracy Island, and there was an accident in an experimental hydrofoil, and for a long time it seemed as though Gordon was going to need a room where he could sit and look at an ocean he might never be able to feel against his skin again. So Alan called up his dad and said that it might be a good idea if Gordon took the sea-room after all. Together, he and his dad came up with a garish colour scheme they knew Gordon's barbaric taste would delight in. It was a surprise for him, but by the time he got to see it he was walking again, and it became something more. Alan never said it to anyone, but he always felt that somehow giving up the room was part of the payment towards getting his brother on his feet again. He never regretted it for a second.

Now he walked into Gordon's room and the sunshiney-beachiness of it no longer seemed a mockery. Virgil's room had a sombre feel to it that suited those long days of waiting and hoping and fearing more than could be put into words. There was something peaceful and gentle about it that recalled his brother without bringing pain to him. This room though? This was a celebration that conjured up just how full of the craziness of life his brother was, and it physically hurt to enter into it and think about the possibility that its owner was dead. For the first time in his young life it brought into Alan's mind a sense of entropy. He looked at the delicacy of newly curled fern fronds at the window and thought of their ultimate end, decomposing back into the soil. He watched seagulls through the oddly shaped windows and thought of bones on the beach, tiny sand mites picking through the carcase. He thought of Gordon's face when he entered this room and realised it was his – the colours announced it without a word said – and then thought of that face obliterated, bloated and rotting beneath the deepest water.

Not today. But it was harder than it should be.

The linen on Gordon's bed when he left was teal blue, the water to his wall's sunset beach. Alan swapped the pillowcases and took the unused clean ones under his arm, where Virgil's sat. Every day Alan handed over the clean pillowcases to Grandma, and every day she washed them, without question. Do whatever works came from her initially after all.

So now he patted Gordon's pillows twice and left his brother's room, and even though everything told him it would be the last time he needed to do this ritual he still found himself reeling around to press his forehead into the wall outside it and just breathe. Just breathe.

Fifty minutes. Fifty minutes, and everyone would be here, everyone could be safe, and nothing bad would happen for seventy-two hours. That was how long they would be offline as International Rescue. Grandma proposed it, John approved it, Colonel Casey just about insisted on it. Seventy-two hours just to feel their way back to wholeness again, and it didn't occur to him that he'd never had the need to understand that term before.

In three days' time John would be fine to go on a rescue. Virgil was already mostly okay, he said, just a little needing of feeding up – but then, when was that ever not true? He, Alan, was good to go, and Kayo was fit as ever. So a crew of four would see them back on call, and everything would be back to normal. Good as new. Except for Gordon's chest and Scott's – well, just about everything – and that was only a matter of time. Brains was so much better, too. Everything would be a-okay. FAB. And in the meantime…

In the meantime, Alan was busy making friends with this wall, because he'd been standing here for a long time now and he didn't know if he could pull himself away. His balance was gone, and his hands were shaking, and he didn't know if it was the world or him that couldn't seem to get it right.

The music being piped through on the island system changed to Beyonce. Ugh. That meant Grandma was getting feisty, dancing as she dusted (again) and doing the kind of little huh-yeah-come-ons that were lethal levels of embarrassing. One Lurex pantsuit short of a crotch grab. It was enough to prise him upright away from the wall and send him downstairs to the living room area where he could press up against the wall of glass and look for a tiny speck in the sky that would tell him he could stand down from an actions station post that saw zero action and meant diddley-squat to the people he wanted to protect.

That speck would come. It would happen. Every part of him was willing it so. He stared until his eyes ached, until it had to be hours, not minutes and they must be here by now, right? And yet even as he did it, as he lost all ability to focus in the endless blue nothingness of the South Pacific sky, it seemed an impossibility. That blueness would never be disturbed by the black dot that would signal Thunderbird One coming home. Unaccompanied for now, Thunderbird Shadow coming along a half hour behind, no Two in partnership this time. They'd already started making plans, him and Brains, about how to resurrect Two and Four, but that was for another day, and one he could scarce believe in when he struggled to accept that One would be here. Now. Surely? Now.

When it did happen, he spent a good minute convincing himself it was fly dirt on the window.

But at last it grew enough that he could detect movement, and he gave a shout that sounded more like an emasculated croak.

"They're here! Grandma, Brains, they're coming!"

The off key singing along to something antique – just what was a Givenchy dress, anyway? – stopped with comic abruptness.

"I'm not ready!"

Alan turned to see Grandma hurrying up the stairs.

"Grandma, everything looks great. Even Virgil's shoe cupboard smells okay. Seriously."

"Well…" She stopped and looked about her, daring anything to be out of place. "I guess you're right. Come on, then." She turned and headed downstairs.

"Grandma?"

"They'll be using Thunderbird Two's runway. Only place One can get horizontal."

"Oh." Yeah, he knew that. He scurried along behind as visions of One careening helplessly downwards and meeting the runway nose first blossomed horribly in his mind.

There was a lift at the back of the second level that took them straight down into the hangar, and there they met Brains, showered and shaved and looking pale but properly upright.

"Are you sure you're okay to do this?" Grandma asked him, gently.

"Oh, yes. The p-period of contagion is well-p-past now, and they all had vaccinations in Edinburgh."

"That's not what I meant, dear," but Grandma patted his shoulder and said no more as the three of them hurried across the hangar floor and out a small doorway hidden alongside the runway to allow emergency egress.

By the time they got out into the humid sunshine, Thunderbird One loomed large in the sky, sleek and silver and carrying their hearts with a confidence Alan only now remembered when he saw her. Somehow in these last few days of waiting for Scott to be well enough to travel everything about IR had assumed some kind of weird fragility in his mind. The robust reality of One's roar put all those doubts aside.

They were home.

His brothers were home.

The VTOL jets fired and One gently lowered to the ground, Grandma, Brains and Alan standing well clear. At the last second she landed so carefully Alan almost thought he heard a sigh from her, as if she was glad to be back on her home soil once more.

For several long seconds nothing happened, and then the access hatch halfway down One's belly opened out, and a figure in a dark navy blue cap and flying jacket swung down. He looked unerringly toward the small group, and Alan couldn't wait anymore. He began to run.

"Gordon! Gordon!"

His brother flashed a grin and began a slow trot towards him, dropping back to a walk after only a few steps.

Alan had practised so many lines for just this moment.

"Hey, long time no sea." That one was a pun, with the whole see and sea bit, but if you couldn't hear the 'a', maybe it didn't really work, though Brains kind of gave it a thumb's up? And then it didn't make sense because the one thing Gordon had had plenty of was sea, so…

Then there was, "Do I get a Rona Island T shirt?" Or "Hey, looks like you shot down a few inches." Or "Ha, I've switched our rooms again."

And in the end all he did was come to a wobbly halt in front of his nearest brother and open his mouth only for absolutely nothing to come out.

When he was a little kid he'd watched Star Wars 24: The Last Stand, and halfway through the final scenes he'd burst into great sobs.

"It's too big for my heart," he'd wailed, and everyone had aww-ed or patted him or thrown popcorn at him, depending on their varying levels of maturity. Ever since he'd had to wear that line, and it was trotted out regularly at the moment most likely to cause him embarrassment. But not since that day so many years ago had he fundamentally remembered exactly why he'd said that.

This. This was too big for his heart.

Something everyone got to know about Gordon if they knew him long enough was that when you really needed him, he had a way of knowing. It was kind of freaky and kind of awesome. Now, just when Alan wanted to say or do something outstandingly cool, and just when it looked like he was going to do something outstandingly dweebie instead, Gordon stepped forward and wrapped him in his arms and - yeah. Maybe that was all that was needed after all.

Or, at least, it was all Alan could do. Because the shaking was back, and he found himself clinging hard to the weird navy leather (Gordon didn't even smell like he should, all pine and coffee and hospital-y), just as Gordon clung hard on to him with one hand. For an endless moment his head burrowed into Gordon's shoulder, and even if Gordon didn't feel or smell the same he was solid and warm and just there. He heard Gordon give the sigh One may have wanted to, and tighten his grip with his right arm.

"Oh," and Alan pulled away, too soon for what he wanted but with sudden realisation. "Your back."

"Nope. My front." Gordon was grinning again, one hand wrapped around Alan's shoulder still, and the look was so familiar and so loved something almost audibly clicked back into place. Alan felt a kind of shift beneath his feet as the world re-settled onto its proper axis for the first time in three weeks. "Or was that a pun?"

"What?"

"Never mind." And Gordon pulled him back in for a quick and noisy kiss onto his hair before pushing him away. "Go and rescue Scott. Grandma's got him."

Alan hadn't even heard John go past him with Scott.

"Scott!"

"Hey, Allie!" Scott was being monstered, no other word for it, by Grandma. "Come here. You look like you've grown on me."

"Nah, it's the whole wheelchair thing," and Alan bent down to give an awkward hug, all-too aware that his biggest brother had been so badly broken. He'd never thought of Scott as breakable before. Just seeing him immobilised was weird, but it didn't matter. He was here, and he looked at Alan the way he always did, a kind of expression that Alan couldn't ever describe but that somehow made him feel taller and smarter and better every time he basked in it. "Scott, it's real good – I mean, I'm so happy - Scott, that plane…"

Scott smiled up at him, even as he gingerly gripped Alan's hand. "I'll tell you all about it. Lots of stories to tell."

There was nothing to tell about Tracy Island, but in the face of his brothers, alive and home and safe, Alan almost didn't mind, for now.

Grandma sneaked in a hug with John, then grabbed Gordon in a lock that had him squeaking.

"Oh, my gorgeous Gordon."

That set John and Scott smirking, and Alan's heart skipped a little with pure happiness.

"Grandmaaa…"

"No whining, Gordon Cooper Tracy. You're getting one of these every day for a month until I know for sure you're back and safe."

Thunderbird One fired up its rockets and lifted away, on its way up to its usual re-entry port, and Grandma shooed them all into the hangar.

Alan insisted on pushing Scott's wheelchair. His brother's hands were proving stubbornly resistant to the powers of the healing gel that had so spectacularly mended everything else.

"They couldn't spring for a motorised one?" he asked, teasingly.

"It is motorised." Scott tapped the top of the control unit on the arm of it. "It's the most up-to-date, automatic, top-pf-the-line model they've got. And it died on me precisely two minutes after I got up into Thunderbird One."

Alan laughed in commiseration. He was secretly relieved that all the patches were gone from Scott's face and he looked just about the same as he'd ever done. The hologram showed that each day, but it didn't mean the same until he could see for himself in real life. Gordon stepped in close beside him, John and Grandma and Brains bringing up the rear.

"It's good to have you back, Gordon," Brains said, and Gordon half-twisted carefully to answer.

"Thanks. Good to be back, Brains. I hear we may have you to thank for figuring out this whole mess?"

"Oh, that was nothing. J-just an application of band theory, th-that's all."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm buying you a drink out of Dad's bar, anyway. Heard you were pretty lousy with a virus the whole time?"

"S-stories of my indisposition were g-greatly exaggerated."

"No, they really weren't." Alan shuddered. "I've never seen poop that colour."

"Nii-ice." Gordon's eyes were alight with interest. "We'll get a paint chart, you can find the exact colour."

"Why would you do that?" asked Brains plaintively, but by then they were in the hangar itself and One was powering down.

"Virgil…" said Grandma. Something in the way she breathed his name made it sound like a prayer, and Alan's heart threatened to go too big again. The boarding gantry extended out, the cockpit hatch lifted, and there was Virgil, in another of the navy jackets, waving.

Gordon, finally, did what should have been done from the start. He gave a massive whoop, and Virgil answered it from up high, hands raised in triumph.

Everyone began to laugh, as if some kind of signal had been given. Yes, they were (almost) all back. Once Kayo landed, it would all be true.

The Tracy family had made it home, after all.

Alan started pushing the wheelchair again after pausing to watch Virgil get out. There was so much he wanted to say – to Gordon, to Scott, even to John, with the memory of that frozen moment behind glass between them – but his mind seemed to be taking an extended break. Stupid brain. He figured he'd do what he usually did in these situations – open his mouth and see what fell out.

"I changed your pillowcases."

Really? His brain sucked.

Gordon looked at him quizzically, but then he just shook his head.

"Heroic laundry's pretty much your thing, huh." Then he grinned. "That's cool. I was figuring I'd come home to an inch of dust in there."

"As if I'd ever allow that to happen." Grandma gave Gordon a glare.

"Well, it sounds like you left all the important jobs to Alan," and that was the thing about Gordon, he had no sense of self-preservation.

Before Alan could dwell on the thought that the only thing he'd done was, in fact, housework and nursing, he tried the open-mouth-release-handbrake strategy again.

"Oh, wait, I get it. The pun. 'You're' back and 'your' back. Ha! Yeah. No. I thought Virgil said the exit wound was taking a while to heal?" Suddenly, now that Gordon was real again, wounds became something to be enthusiastically explored rather than feared. "Do you have a good scar?"

Oh, god, another cringe. Gordon's body already had a silvery network of fine scars all over it from the hydrofoil accident. As if he needed or wanted another one.

"Nah. Everything gets healed over real good these days. I do have a dent, though."

"That's cool, I guess."

"A bullet wound dent? Maximum coolness. You wait till I go surfing again, Cali, Australia, Hawaii. Guys and gals, they love the scars. Oh man, Al, you have no idea how much I'm looking forward to splashing about somewhere hot. Somewhere with actual beaches! Proper sand, warm sand. I can't wait."

"You didn't think much of Rona Island resort, then?"

"The Outer Hebrides do not rate on the Gordon Tracy Best Places to Immerse Your Awesome Body Scale. At all."

"The seals will feel bad," Scott said. Gordon waved a hand, airily.

"Nah, it rates big time on the Gordon Tracy Superior Seals Scale. They'll have to be content with that."

"Good to know." Scott was obviously twitchy in his chair, his thighs flexing and hands repeatedly moving to take over in driving the thing before remembering and pulling them away. Alan steered him carefully into the elevator that would take them to join Virgil.

It opened (with the theme from '2001' that Gordon had somehow programmed into it six months ago and no-one had gotten around to removing) and Alan wavered behind Scott until Gordon took the handles from him.

"Go," he said, and Alan dashed past the chair to leap at Virgil.

Virgil once drew himself as a bear, and that's what it felt like, grabbing around his waist and hanging on, for as long as he liked. The biggest, strongest, best bear in the world.  
Eventually, Alan pulled back and wrinkled his face.

"Dude, what is it with these jackets?"

"Ha." Virgil smiled at him. "GDF flying issue. Drago got 'em for me and Gordon. And I think Scott and John, too."

"Oh, right. He's that guy."

"Yeah, he's 'that guy'. Just ask Kayo."

"What?"

But Virgil had Alan's face in his hands now, and was looking intently at him, as if searching through debris for something of value, lost.

This was just what Virgil did sometimes. No big deal.

"Cut it out, Virge. I'm still in one piece, and so are you. You were the one who got yourself lost!"

"Yeah." A pat to the side of his face, and Virgil let go of him, reluctantly, one hand straying to his shoulder to keep in contact.

"Virgil, Virgil," and Grandma was swallowed up in his hug, a little sob escaping her.

"It's okay. We're okay, we're okay." A rumble, a reassurance, and an extra squeeze before he released her only far enough to tuck her under his arm. "It's real good to see you, Grandma. And you know what we've got in here?" He indicated the large container on wheels at his other side.

"Ooh. Virgil! Did you get those samples of c-crystalline terellium I asked for?"

"What? No!" Gordon sounded horrified. "Brains, buddy, I know you're off your feed, but come on. That's the loot from our sack and pillage of Harrods' Food Hall, yesterday."  
"Your samples are in the hold," Virgil said, more calmly.

"We thought we all deserved a feast." John took charge of the container from Virgil, and went on ahead. "I'll get these in the fridge."

"I don't know if I can eat," said Grandma, and there was something in her voice that sounded so unlike her – a tremor, a hesitation. "I'm too wound up."

"You'll be fine," and Virgil patted her hand where it held his. "We'll look after you now."

"I'm supposed to look after you." Grandma looked up at him, and her eyes were wet. "But you might be right. I've never felt as old as I've felt these last few weeks."

And that was like a slap to Alan. Wasn't he supposed to be looking after his grandmother? Wasn't that his task? Apparently, he'd done an awful job of it.

"Never mind, Grandma." Gordon was nothing but magnanimous. "I'll have your share."

That brought Grandma's head down and round in a hurry.

"Like hell you will!"

The moment of Ruth Tracy's vulnerability was over.

Laughing, they all entered the main living room of Tracy Island's home. Gordon wandered away to the window where Alan had recently been stationed and took up his brother's post, looking out over the Southern Pacific Ocean like a helmsman reading a ship's path. Scott hoisted himself from the wheelchair into his father's chair, at his father's desk, and patted the wood of it as if settling a nervous animal.

John came back up from the kitchen and stepped down into the conversation pit, stretching out along the olive green couch, while Grandma and Brain took the brown chairs beside it. Alan assumed his standard teenage boy position, sprawled half on, half off the mustard one.

Virgil was drawn, as Alan knew he would be, to his piano. He sat down at it and softly rested his fingers against the keys, not playing anything, just soaking in their latent music as another man might draw warmth from a fire.

"When's Kayo getting home?" John asked the question horizontally. His face looked paler than ever, and as he closed his eyes his expression was one of a man who lacked the energy to be anything other than at peace, even with his knees bent to accommodate his size on the couch.

"Should be in the next few minutes." Virgil played a quiet run, almost absently.

Brains pushed his glasses up his nose. "I b-believe you said she was to be awarded some kind of c-commendation?"

"Yeah. But she said no to it." Scott followed Gordon's gaze out to sea. "Didn't think any kind of public profile would suit the head of IR security."

"P-pity. She did a good job. You all did."

Abruptly, Gordon turned around.

"You know what? You're right, we all did. I vote champagne all round. Or! One of my special Bell's Beach Ball-blasters."

"Gordon, really."

"Grandma, you know you love 'em. Right. It's settled. Ball-blasters all round."

"Well," said John, still lying on his back, still with eyes closed, "we've got three days. I'm in."

"Sure. Why not." Scott smiled wearily as Gordon made a trumpeting noise and trotted off down to the kitchen, then called after him, "Better make a virgin Ball-Blaster for Alan!"

"Oh, hey, come on!"

"Come on nothing, young man." Apparently, Grandma had recovered her mojo just in time to oppress Alan. "You know your father made all your brothers wait until they were twenty-one."

"Well, twenty and a half," said Scott.

"Twenty," murmured John.

"Uh, nineteen." That from Virgil, his mouth twitching.

"Seventeen!" came from the kitchen.

"What? No!" Alan spread his hands in appeal. "I'm eighteen. How is this remotely fair?"

"The youngest gets the benefit of all the elders' mistakes." Scott grinned. "I mean, look at Gordon. If he hadn't started drinking so young, he might have got a decent degree."

"Oh, Scott." Grandma was scathing. "As if marine biology is such a walk in the park."

"Well, it is. Everything they study is so – fluid."

"Is that a joke?' John didn't open his eyes. "Let me know if he says an actual joke."

"Oh, we'll let off sirens," said Virgil.

"I bet his degree helped on Rona." Alan felt no-one should be putting down Gordon today, not even Scott.

"He did find us some seafood," Virgil said, considering. "And massaged a shark."

"Enough with the shark. Seriously."

"Ah, Scotty, what does it matter?" John was obviously enjoying this, albeit while lying on his back. "They've both got all their fingers and toes."

"I shudder to think what they got up to. Hey, here's a thought – instead of torturing me, why don't you play something?" Scott directed this to Virgil, who thought about it, and then gave a hollow kind of laugh.

"Not sure I'll remember how."

"It was only a couple of weeks," Scott said. Virgil shook his head.

"I know. Ridiculous really. But it felt – the island felt like…" He frowned, and glanced towards the stairs where Gordon was reappearing with a tray of violently lime-and-red coloured drinks.

"Here you go." Gordon carefully bent his knees to offer the tray to those in the pit. "In honour of its Australian genesis, let me just say – wrap your laughing gear around that. Oh, and Kayo's here."

Everyone looked up and out to see Thunderbird Shadow sweep past to her mountain launch pad.

"This reminds me," Alan said, although he really didn't know what it was that prompted it. "You all missed my birthday."

Virgil nodded. "This is true. Never mind. Next year will be a big one to make up for it."

"Next year?"

Gordon went over to the window again and looked down at the pool. He was still there when Kayo came up the stairs, three at a time, a wide smile on her face.

"Now, this is what I like to see – the Tracy family, out of hospital, off Scottish islands, relaxing at home."

"Kayo!" Grandma cried. She got up and climbed out of the pit to give her adopted granddaughter a hug. "It's so good to have you back. Now I really will feel like I can relax again."

"And drinking beebie-beebies. Gordon! Where's mine?"

"Here." Gordon came over to her. "Have mine."

"Okay, now I'm suspicious," said John, cracking open an eye. "What have you put in these?"

"Oh, the usual. Tequila, lime, cranberry, gin. Plus my secret ingredient."

"I dread to think." John took a sip. "Tastes alright, though."

"What about you?" Kayo asked Gordon, who hesitated.

"Maybe later."

Scott lifted an eyebrow.

"Okay, may as well get it over with. Why don't you head out to the pool? I'm surprised you've lasted this long."

"Can't." Gordon indicated his chest. "Doctors say no swimming for another week."

Scott shrugged.

"So just go and float. You'll feel like you're home then."

Gordon looked at him strangely, then said, "Yeah, I think I'll go and get lunch started. I'm starving."

He retraced Kayo's footsteps, heading downstairs.

Scott frowned. "I've never seen Gordon volunteer to set out lunch before. What'd I say?"

Alan watched as Virgil gave Scott his own version of Gordon's expression.

"Dude. The last time he was floating he was dying. Might have something to do with it."

"Oh." Scott looked glum. "Hell. I'll – "

"No, don't worry." John unrolled himself from the couch, his legs as gangly as a drunken giraffe's. "I'm heading down there anyway."

"Me, too." Grandma, still by Kayo, nodded decisively. "If I leave it to Gordon we'll have chocolate mousse on the lobster."

"I'll help," said Kayo.

"And I need to go and get those s-samples before I set about eating." Brains joined her as she headed for the kitchen.

"I'll come and help, too," Alan said, but Kayo gave him a quick, silent shake of the head.

Ah. Okay. She wanted to talk to Grandma by herself. Cool. He found he really didn't mind lying back on the couch. For some reason, just waiting and watching all morning had kind of worn him out. And the mustard couch was his fave, so he wriggled his toes in the blue carpet and sank back.

Once Kayo had gone, the only sound in the room was Virgil's occasional soft chord on the piano, sometimes evolving into a half-tune, sometimes an orphan that echoed into the silence. After a minute, Scott gave a sigh.

"Well. That's a salutary lesson in how to clear a room in five seconds flat."

Virgil gave a soft chuckle.

"I don't think it was you. I think everyone's hungry and that box from Harrods looks too darn tempting."

"Well, thank goodness someone is overseeing Gordon's version of lunch prep."

"Amen."

A silence, companionable, and then Scott cleared his throat.

"You had that talk with Gordon yet?"

For a moment, Alan thought his big brother was talking to him. He frowned. What talk? There was a pause, as he considered exactly what Scott was talking about, but then Virgil answered.

"Never seems to be the right time."

"Uh-huh" A world of scepticism in Scott's voice. "How long have you known about this thing with Lady Penelope?"

Scott didn't know about that? Really. Wow. Alan took a second to re-evaluate his impression of Scott's powers of omniscience. Everyone knew about Gordon and Penelope!

"Oh, that's been simmering for a while."

"But Penelope and Gordon? She's way out of his league."

Now hang on. Lady Penelope was cool, sure, but Gordon could hold his breath for three minutes underwater, plus he played 'Kochimoto Baby' on the guitar and knew all the best surf spots on three continents. What woman wouldn't melt with all that on offer?

"You don't give Gordon enough credit. He's plenty smart. And he's tougher than you think."

Damn straight.

"He's so tough I can't even say the word float around him."

Alan almost sat up in his indignation, but he trusted Virgil to come through.

"Hey, that's not fair."

"Well, I wouldn't know, since no one will talk to me. You haven't even told me what happened on that island yet."

"It was boring, and cold, and we didn't know what the hell had happened, to us or to anyone else. We both went about five days, six days, without washing. Gordon found a GDF container one day in the water, made us wonder if it was another 2048. That's about it."

There was a pause, and Alan found himself wishing Virgil would tell more about his adventures. Seven days cast away on an island with Gordon? There had to be plenty of stories there.

When Scott spoke again, the slight combativeness was gone from his voice. He just sounded tired.

"Come on, Virge. You know Gordon's not his usual self. No way I should've got under his skin with that comment. I just – I just want to help him, that's all. Help me understand what you both went through."

Two, three bars on the piano. Alan knew that one. Maybe?

"For starters, it really was Gordon who saved us when Two went down. He got us out, he kept Four going on just about zero power until we got into the North Sea and weren't going to drift up somewhere in the Arctic Circle. He did a hell of a job."

"And then he crashed Four."

Two things Alan realised at almost the same time.

His irritation at Scott's needling fell away as he understood that Scott was doing it deliberately. There was something wrong that Scott was trying to winkle out of Virgil, and it had to do with Gordon.

And two? Scott and Virgil didn't know he was still there.

He thought about announcing himself, but even as he did so, the frisson of unintentional illegality persuaded him to wait.

"Because he was exhausted. I was useless, and it took everything he had just to keep us going as long as he did. We couldn't run scans, automatic trim was gone… it was pitch black down there. He was going on feel, and the kid was about done even before the EMF hit us."

"Okay, but – "

"And then when we did crash, he dragged my sorry ass through sixty metres of water and up onto land. Hell yeah, he's tough."

"So how come he's so off now?"

"He's doing okay."

"He really isn't."

"Maybe I'm not the guy to be talking to him just now."

"Why not? I mean, of all of us, you're the one who can understand what it was like on that place. You're the guy who knows what went down the morning the sub came by."

A few more bars, and Alan knew Virgil was using the music to buy himself time.

Something cold crept into his belly.

Virgil was the strongest person Alan knew. More even than Scott, and what would have been heresy only six months ago was starting to coalesce in Alan's mind into an understanding of leadership. No one would ever persuade him that Scott wasn't the best leader of any organisation, ever. But he had begun to be aware of moments when Scott allowed his impatience, his anger, to colour his decisions. He never would have noticed if he hadn't been given some chances here and there to lead missions himself, and when he asked himself, "What would Scott do?' he had to acknowledge that, some days, it would depend on Scott's internal temperature.

But Virgil? Alan knew that Virgil was as constant as the sea-breeze every afternoon. It was Virgil who showed him how to keep his emotions in control, who gave him an example of a man of passion who kept that passion in check, reined in until he could unleash it through music or paint. Virgil thought things through, and put those thoughts where they could serve him best.

Virgil didn't buy himself time in order to hide.

"Not a whole lot to tell. Gordon spotted the sub first thing, he headed down around the coast to come up behind them in the cove. I stayed up top, and when they went to set up the EMF weapon again, I came over and destroyed it before they could do anything with it."

"The weapon was still working? I thought I knocked it out."

"You knocked out the sub, but yeah, it looked like they were setting it up again."

"So you destroyed it. No one tried to stop you?"

"I guess I knocked out a couple guys."

"Were they armed?"

"What difference does that make?" Virgil, defensive.

Virgil was never defensive.

Scott sounded conciliatory. "I'm awarding awesome points here. So far you've racked up a few."

"It was Gordon who…"

"What?"

Another pause.

"What, Virge?"

Virgil's voice was treacle-dark, so deep it was coming from somewhere under the island.

"There was plenty of gunfire in the cove."

And Scott's voice joined his in the depths, slow and soft.

"Is that where he got shot?"

Alan's stomach tightened further.

Oh, no, Scott, don't ask.

"Virgil?"

Alan suddenly found it hard to breathe. This wasn't anything he wanted to hear. This was the penalty for eavesdropping, and he really didn't want to pay it.

"No."

"He got shot in front of you?" Scott, as careful and insistent as a surgeon probing flesh.

"Hey, you know what? Why don't you ask Gordon? It happened to him."

"Virgil, come on. You're the one who gets this stuff. It didn't just happen to him." Scott's voice dropped impossibly lower. "It happened to you, too."

"Then maybe you get why I don't really want to revisit it."

"And I'd respect that, I would, but I've stood back for over a week and you two aren't doing squat about getting yourselves sorted."

"Right. Yeah. I'll get on that."

And that sounded as though Virgil the bear was unfolding his claws.

"I don't mean - Virge, you know I know about this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?"

"Having a shitty experience and dealing with it."

"So you've diagnosed us both with PTSD now? That where you're going? Never picked you for an armchair psychologist."

"Nope. I don't have a clue. I just know two of my brothers were hurt and lost and I've got 'em back but something went down that they won't talk about and they're still hurt and lost. And it doesn't seem to matter what I say or how I say it, neither one will trust me enough to tell me what's going on."

"Wow, Scooter. It's really not about you."

"Never said it was."

"Yeah, you kinda just did. This is some kind of commander control bullshit, right? I need to know everything that's going on under my roof?"

Alan's hands clenched. The world so recently righted was starting to tilt again. Scott and Virgil didn't fight. Not like this. Not – not mean, and personal.

"Virgil? The fact you're saying that to me… can you hear yourself? I'm worried, I'm trying to help, and I'm getting a lot of grief from you right now."

Another long pause, and Alan didn't know if he wanted it to break or not. He just knew he wanted out of this. But his chance to declare himself had come and gone, and they would never forgive him if they knew he was listening in now. He stayed, a miserable hostage to his own curiosity, half-curled in on himself as if to deflect the aural blows to his understanding of how their family worked.

A flighty set of notes on the piano, something music hall and jaunty, and then silence.

"Virgil?"

"Maybe you're right."

"About - ?"

"Maybe it is a kind of grief. I don't know what you call it."

"You know I didn't mean – never mind. Alright, grief. You and I have had our share. That's a monster we've fought before."

"I don't think you can fight grief, Scott. I think that's where you went wrong."

Even as he gave ground, Virgil the bear was digging in his heels and slashing with his claws.

"I went wrong? You care to enlighten me there? Don't remember getting the memo about the right way to get through that."

"Yep. When Mom died you and Dad both went into combat mode."

"And what's your answer?"

"Don't have one. But I think grief is something you need to let wash through you. You don't resist, you let it take its course. Standing against it just makes waves."

"So that's what you're doing? Letting it go through you? From here it looks like you're getting submerged, big guy."

Pause.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if this is grief or shame or…"

Alan's clenched hands were pulled tight against his stomach.

Scott's tone shifted again – tentative, cautious. He was losing his footing in this conversation, too.

"Shame?"

A verbal shrug.

"I don't know. What did you call it when you had that breakdown after Bereznik?"

"That? That was different."

"How?"

"Virgil, I didn't have a week long struggle for survival, wondering if the world was coming to an end. I don't know how that feels, and you're not telling me. I killed two people. It took me a long time to come to terms with that. I don't know if I have, yet. That's a whole different deal."

Alan stopped breathing. Scott… Scott did what?

"It really isn't."

"Yeah, trust me, it is."

"Yeah, trust me, it isn't."

Pause.

"What are you saying?"

Pause.

"Virgil?"

Pause.

Alan risked a peek over couch, just enough to get one eye clear of its backing. He could see Virgil, looking downwards at his hands on the keyboard. His jaw – Virgil's jaw was so tight Alan could see where his newly thinned cheeks were hollowing with the strain. And his eyes...

Alan ducked back down again. He never wanted to see that look in his brother's face, ever again. That was the look that went with too-late in the rescue trade. That was survivors staring at help and saying, it doesn't count. It's all over. You missed being here when it mattered to me.

"I can't. Not today."

"Okay. Yeah, you're right. Everyone will be back in a minute. But Virgil? If I ask for the GDF report from the island…"

"They'll mention a casualty."

"Casualty."

"Yeah."

Long pause.

"Scott, if I have to say it I have to deal with it, and just now…"

"Okay. Hey, Virge, it's okay."

"It really isn't."

"Okay. Do you think this is why Gordon is upset? He knows about this?"

"No, I think getting dragged up on top of a cliff and deliberately shot will do that. Not to mention getting tossed off that cliff afterwards."

A sharp intake of breath from Scott, and it was enough to hide the same from Alan.

"No…"

"You wanted to know."

"God."

"Yeah."

Pause.

Virgil. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

A bleak little laugh.

"I asked for it. And yeah, you should. Gordon was – god. Oh my god. They had him on a cliff? They – they shot him and threw him..?"

Virgil didn't answer, and Alan put his fist in his mouth because this was all too much. People didn't – they didn't take someone like Gordon on top of a cliff and then just…

It was so fundamentally cruel. And wrong. And something they should have been able to stop, all of them, together.

His belly swooped as if he was diving, and he wondered if he was going to be sick.

Scott didn't sound much better.

"You should – this is beyond me."

"You've been through this yourself."

"No. No, not like this. No, god, not at all. For me it was all at a distance, it was almost… I guess it was killing in abstract."

"Whereas mine was kinda not."

"Whatever you did, however it went down, you had your reasons. Virgil, you had your reasons."

"Yeah."

Another long moment of silence, only this time, the piano keys were still and the sun burned through the windows like an Inquisition, all pure light and heat and judgement.

Alan had heard Scott like this before, when things had gone wrong and he was scrambling to douse the reckoner's flames. Not quite scared, but feeling the heat curling at his belly.

"Would you do it again?"

"I do it again every night when I don't sleep. And yeah, I would, and if you think that makes the slightest bit of difference…"

"No, I know. I know. I – god, I'm screwing this up." Scott took a great, shuddering breath. "Virgil, I got help. A lot of it. I don't think I would have crawled out of the hole I was in if I didn't. I mean, IR helped. Gave me something to focus on. You guys helped, too. But it was too big for me on my own. Let me call her, she was – she really helped."

Virgil, dry as desert sand.

"Sure."

"Virgil – "

"You can't magic bullet this, Scott. But yeah, sure, I get it and yeah, I think a therapist would be just peachy down the track some."

"Okay. And maybe you can talk Gordon into it, too."

Pause.

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Alan heard Scott reach for his commander voice, lost somewhere along the way. "And you know I'm always – "

Kayo bounced up the stairs, a refreshed Ball-blaster in her hand.

"Alright you lot, lunch is served and you'd better hurry because I intend to eat more than my fair – are you guys okay?"

She first took in Alan, hidden below the floor level in the conversation pit, then Virgil and Scott. Her eyes widened briefly at Alan. He shook his head frantically, putting one finger up to his mouth in a 'shh' motion, and she, preternaturally aware as always, gave the tiniest of nods in return.

"Yeah. Just pre-lunch indigestion. We're coming – right, Virgil?"

Cleared throat.

"Right. Yeah. Coming."

"We've unleashed the lobster, you better be. Here." She grabbed the wheelchair and positioned herself between Alan and Scott as she helped him into it. "Right. Come on, Virgil. Oh, Virgil? Would you go down to the cellar, pick something un-lime green to have with lunch?"

She pulled the wheelchair to the left so that Virgil was forced to walk on the outside of it, closer to the window. Alan stayed still and quiet as Kayo whisked Scott and Virgil away, chattering and pointing to the view, then got up and crept down behind them.

Whatever view Kayo was highlighting to Scott, it had nothing on the view of the table once he got down there. Every inch of the surface was covered in unpacked delicacies; exotic salads, cheeses, meat, pilafs, bread. The aromas were incredible. On any other day, Alan would have been cartwheeling his way to his seat, looking forward to descending upon the food like a one man flock of seagulls at a beach picnic.

Today, though.

Today his stomach was in the kind of knot that had no room for food at all.

He wished, more than anything, that he'd gotten up and left when he said he would. The burden of that conversation, stolen from his brothers, weighed him down so much that when he did sit, his shoulders were slumped in a way that would have invited a comment from Grandma if she hadn't been so busy passing plates and serving spoons.

Scott killed someone. In the battle over Bereznik, and sure, maybe he'd always accepted that it might have happened. Even spun a fantasy dogfight or two, where he acted as Scott in absnetia and brought down hordes of Berezniki fighters with bloodthirsty glee.

It was different, hearing it really did happen. Hearing the tone of Scott's voice as he said it. Nothing gleeful there, only sorrow, and it hurt to think of Scott carrying that sadness every day.

And then Virgil. He killed someone? On the Island? Alan didn't know if it was the thought of what Virgil had done or the realisation of just how desperate things must have been that chilled him more. Virgil was so gentle in his strength – it was impossible, horrible, to think of any situation that would mean that gentleness was corrupted by killing intent.

Last of all, Gordon. Who was currently talking and joking and occasionally humming snatches of song in a non-stop stream of noise as he sat beside Kayo. Maybe if Alan hadn't heard what happened he would have sat back and enjoyed Gordon's version of a one-man band.

Now? Now it was grotesque.

Because he could see it, in Gordon's eyes, the second-swift shadow that flashed on and off like a kind of subliminal message on a screen. One frame per thousand. Something that you'd only see if you knew to slow the film.

"Yeah, of course you'd say that. Of course you'd suddenly decide Aussie accents are cute."

Kayo rolled her eyes at Gordon.

"I never said cute."

"Gidday, mite."

"That's Cockney. Or South African, honestly, Gordon, your accents are the worst."

"Not true! I once convinced this doorman in Pretoria that I was on the Dutch swim team, remember, Virgil?"

"I remember," said Virgil, coming back with two bottles in his hands. "It was a proud day for us all."

"Ha! See?"

"I see nothing," said Kayo. "You're just jealous because Drago has eight medals for gallantry and you have one medal for going up and down a pool in very tight underwear."

"And you're just interested in medals all of a sudden because of the chest they're pinned on."

"A hit. A palpable hit," said John, smiling.

"What's the big deal about this Drago guy?" Alan found another thing to twist in his belly. "Just 'cos he gave you jackets?"

Gordon sing-songed. "That's not all he gave us. Well, one of us. Right, Kayo?"

"What? Ugh. You guys are so childish."

"Alright, attention everyone." Scott tapped on the outside of his glass. "Virgil has manfully descended into the bowels of Tracy Island to bring back – uh, champagne or red. Has everyone got a glass? Who wants what?"

A clamor, as glasses were held up and filled accordingly. When everyone sat back, Scott raised his glass again.

"I don't think anyone's done this properly yet, and I think it's high time someone did, so here it is; a toast to John, for coming down and pulling Virgil and Gordon out of the sea and saving their lives."

John looked stricken.

"No. You shouldn't do – no. Choose someone else."

"Okay," said Virgil, mildly. "Then I've got one." He raised his glass. "To John. For pulling me and Gordon out of the sea and unquestionably saving our lives, and if you're not counting that as a win, Johnny, I sure am. And to Scott, for just about re-writing the book on reckless rescues, but who found the way to stop the Regency madness. And to Kayo, for taking out the New York chapter and helping to make sure that was the end of those jerks."

"Hear, hear!" Gordon raised his glass. "To John and Scott and Kayo!"

"And to Virgil and Gordon for having the good sense to survive until we got there," said Kayo, and Grandma muttered, "Damn straight!"

"And to Brains for figuring out the problem and solving it even though he was ejecting every possible bodily fluid known to humanity as he did so," continued Scott. Brains nodded solemnly.

"And to Alan who nursed me throughout and n-never complained once. Except to tell me to stop working and g-get back to bed."

Alan raised his glass.

"And to Grandma for holding all of us together!"

"Then, I guess it's 'here's to us all!' " Scott summed up, laughing, and everyone joined with him, glasses high.

No one would know, thought Alan. Anyone looking at this would think we're all so happy, and we're not. We're really not.

It felt so wrong. They'd all survived. They were all home, at last, the family he loved. This was supposed to be a happy day, right? He'd looked forward to it so hard it had hurt, and now… now there were undercurrents, everywhere he looked.

That moment when Scott made him a toast, and John backed away. Virgil, pretending not to be miserable. Gordon, creating verbal fireworks so he didn't have to think about what happened to him. Scott, worried and sad and holding his glass up like an emergency beacon in a storm.

Alan found himself on his feet, glass still clutched in his hand, untasted.

Open mouth, see what falls out.

"Hey everyone. I – I just wanted to say…" He looked around him, at the faces turned towards him, curious, patient, loving. He swallowed. "You know, it's been a really shitty three weeks. Uh, sorry, Grandma. And no offence, Brains."

"No, no, not at all. V-very accurate, really."

"Yeah." Alan nodded. "So –uh, it's been really awful. And there were lots of times when I didn't think we'd all be together again, here, like this." John dropped his gaze to the table. "I know that everyone went through a whole lot. I mean, all we did here was wait, I guess, but that sucked big time. And now we all are here, round the table, I almost can't believe it. I guess I imagined the worst, some days, and the worst…" He looked directly at John, until John finally looked back up at him. "The worst was when I thought maybe I'd only have one brother left."

No-one said anything. The quiet was so rare in the Tracy kitchen that it felt unnatural. Alan swallowed again, knowing he was probably making a fool of himself and suddenly, strongly, uncaring of the fact.

"And instead, everyone's home. Gordie, Virgil – we really hated it when you were lost. It was really scary, thinking we might never find you again. And Scott, when we heard you crashed the plane, it just felt like – it was – it sucked so bad, more than anything, because maybe Virgil and Gordo were okay, we didn't know, but we knew you weren't. And then, when you came down and flew off so fast, John, we thought for sure that you'd maybe crash or not make it. Just seemed like everything was going wrong, so why would you be any different?"

Grandma was crying. He'd made Grandma cry. Great.

"Uh, and then Kayo was going after those creeps off New York, and that was kinda freaky to think about, too." He took a deep breath. "So what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't matter – whatever happened, I know things were probably really shitty – sorry, Grandma – but I wouldn't change anything that meant no-one wasn't here. I mean, wait, is that a double-negative? Whatever. You know what I mean, right?"

Scott wasn't smiling anymore. No one was. But he nodded, and Alan kept going.

"So, here's to a post-ironic toast. Whatever we have to deal with, we'll deal with it together, because we all made it, and right now, I think – " Something was choking up his throat, and stinging his eyes, but he blinked and kept going, "I think that is the really important thing. So yeah. Um. Here's to everyone making it home."

Slowly, each glass was lifted to join his. Scott was blinking, too, but he smiled at Alan.

"To making it home."

Everyone murmured the words. He sat down, a little overwhelmed, vaguely hoping that he'd managed to say something approximating what was in his heart. Grandma dabbed at her eyes.

Virgil's gaze met his.

"Well said, little brother."

"Nicely done," and Kayo reached over to pat Alan's back.

"Well," and Gordon threw back his glass of champagne, finishing it in one long gulp, "I know what you're dealing with, Alan."

"What?" Instantly, Alan's mind pictured his secret scurry down the stairs, with dread. Had Gordon figured out he was eavesdropping on the others?

"You're dealing with a missed eighteenth birthday."

"Hells, yes," and Virgil pushed back from the table. "I think I know where a couple of birthday presents might be tucked away."

"You know where mine is," Gordon called.

"On it." Virgil loped over to the staircase, where he took them two at a time, up towards the bedroom level.

After a brief pause, the conversation burst into life again, colour and noise like a startled flock of birds flying out from cover. Brains explaining to Kayo just how he intended to work on the new terellium samples to find a way to resist future weapons, John giving Grandma a hug and explaining to her that he always knew they kept Alan around for some reason, Gordon explaining to anyone at all that champagne was so much better on the beach directly out of the bottle, or preferably licked slowly off a very good friend.

At first only Alan noticed Scott muttering, "Fuck it," very softly under his breath and wheeling himself away from the table to head for the lift. He got up, too.

"Scott!" It didn't matter if her eyes were full of tears, Grandma still didn't miss much for long. "You shouldn't – you'll hurt your hands."

"They're fine," Scott called, and the lift closed, hiding him.

"I'll go get him, Grandma," and Alan ran across to the staircase and followed Virgil, racing up the stairs. He knew it was more than the effort of climbing that had his heart pounding.

This time, he wouldn't stay hidden. If his brothers were going to get into it again, this time he'd put himself between them, no matter what stupid stuff came out of them. Hadn't they listened to a word he'd said?

By the time he slowed towards the top, the lift was opening and Scott was coming out onto the landing. Virgil, three presents in his hands, one of them awkwardly large, was just coming out of Gordon's room.

Alan hesitated, then tucked himself away at the side of the stairs. Years of being forcibly instructed in the consequences of ill-advised interruptions to older brothers' conversations was too much behavioural conditioning to overcome at once. But he was ready to do so if he needed to.

"Scott?" he could hear the frown in Virgil's voice. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be wheeling that chair."

"I'll cope."

"You don't need to. Anyone would be happy to push you around."

"I'm sure Gordon would have a joke around that."

"Yeah." A chuckle. That was better. "But I know where you keep your presents, Scott. Top of the wardrobe, same as ever. You didn't have to come up."

"Yeah, I did. I wanted to catch you before we get into Dad's good stuff and you wouldn't know if it was the whisky talking, or me."

"You planning on making a session of it, then?"

"You bet. How often do we get three days off? And more to the point, Alan was pretty much on the money down there."

"He was at that. You think maybe he's gone and grown up some since we weren't looking?"

They contemplated that for two seconds, before both saying "Nah" in unison.

Alan, hiding at the top of the stairs, covered his mouth to hide a snort.

"Look, Virgil – I came on too strong down there."

"No, no, you – "

"Yeah, I did. I just … it hasn't felt like us, since I woke up back there, and I didn't know if it was me, you know, head injury, or if it was – I dunno. You? All the stuff that happened to us? Goddamn Edinburgh and its lousy weather?"

Another chuckle.

"I hear it's lovely in summer."

"Great. We'll go back then. Thank all those people who helped us. Virge – you know what I mean."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"I miss my wingman."

"Huh. One is Two's wingman."

"Even when Two's underwater?"

"Oh, you went there."

"We'll get her back. I think Brains is excited by the challenge."

"Yeah. I think he was plotting out ways to bring her up as he was forking out the pasta salad."

"Ha, yeah. Virgil –" There was a rustling sound, and Virgil's alarmed, "Scott!"

Alan couldn't resist. He put one side of his face around the corner so that he could see what was happening.

Scott, facing away from him. Standing up.

Virgil, his eyes huge and sad, facing Scott.

"I think I've got about ten seconds like this, so – "

"Whoa, Scott," and Virgil dropped the presents and stepped forward to grab him.

Oooh.

Alan opened his mouth in admiration. Scott! That much sneakiness was worthy of Alan himself. Maybe even Gordon, the master.

Because Scott had wobbled alarmingly before wrapping his arms around Virgil, and after a few moments of figuring out what was going on, Virgil had made a sound like a cliff collapsing into the sea and grabbed hold of Scott, too.

Alan carefully tucked himself back out of sight and began to tip toe down the first flight of stairs.

It didn't matter what was in the parcels Virgil carried. Didn't matter what anyone produced from hidden places around Tracy Island, the way they always did for birthdays.  
Alan's best present wasn't wrapped at all, and only he and two of his brothers would ever know about it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17** **: Ad astra per aspera**

 **Summary:**

Scott and John try for honesty. Beer helps.

 **Notes:**

Again and always, the incomparable Soleil_Lumiere deserves all the love for the beta. And for all the discussions as we nut this out together. Very much needed for the next chapter in particular! We're almost there, folks...

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

Ad astra per aspera

It was as he sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling more than a little blurred around the edges after the long day, that Scott realised he was still two hundred and thirty steps down on his day's prescribed count.

Well, dammit.

Brains had developed the device he was now wearing, one that used the properties of magnetism to create a kind of dynamic tension between magnets wrapped around his ankles and waist, strong enough to offer Scott's body complete support as he stood and re-toned the muscles in his legs. After viewing the 3-D scans sent to him the wildly enthused physiotherapist back in Brisbane insisted via the phone that Scott use it to walk at least one thousand steps each day for the first week of wearing it, increasing the total every second day after that by five hundred. And today, the first full day of waddling around the Tracy family home and only the second back from Scotland, he had failed to meet the target.

He groaned. He was tired. Exhausted, really. It was a never-ending battle some days, between a body that had already taken its fair share of battering prior to crash-landing it on a Lossiemouth runway and the demands he insisted placing on it in his role as IR commander. The notion of rest and recuperation was one he firmly believed in for his brothers or any other survivors of injury or trauma. Usually, it was just harder to apply it to himself.

But not tonight. Tonight he would gladly unhook magnetic attachments and stretch out on the bed to let it work its horizontal magic on his weary body.

The window walls in the bedrooms of the Tracy Island home had inbuilt functions that allowed the occupier to frost or clear the glass according to time of day and weather conditions. Frosting allowed for privacy and shade. Clarity allowed for views of sea and sky. If he wasn't in dire need of immediate sleep Scott, like Gordon, loved leaving it unfrosted at night time so that the brilliant South Pacific stars could illuminate his room. With only a small glow lamp on now the room was filled with a faint, silvery light, and the thought of just closing his eyes and giving up for the day tempted him so much that he sat there, eyes shut, for over a minute before sighing his way back to his feet.

There was no ache, the pain patches saw to that, but tiredness was not something so easily dispatched. It didn't matter. For Scott, being the commander of IR meant always being on the clock, even if it was only his own, internal one. The one that ticked over seconds not checking data, not training, not seeing that his brothers were okay, not spent in bringing his body back to its full capacity. It was an infernal, unceasing thing, as unstoppable as his own pulse, and it would not let him rest tonight until he'd met the fitness requirement assigned to him. Anything less might mean delays in once more taking up the responsibilities now shared among John, Alan, Kayo and Virgil, and that wasn't fair.

So, back to it. Five lurching steps to the door. Pivot. Five steps back. Repeat.

It took less than three repetitions for Scott to be thoroughly bored with that idea, so when he reached the door for the fourth time, he opened it and stepped out onto the balcony fronting their bedrooms hung high above the island's edge, overlooking the main building of the house itself.

And found a dark figure lying on a lounger at the far point of the balcony floor, apparently asleep with his arms folded across his stomach.

Some of the boys' bedrooms were spread across the two levels. Gordon's room was the largest and the furthermost down the upper walkway, and light blared from it. Music would, too, if the soundproofed door was opened. Gordon, Scott was painfully aware, wasn't sleeping much these days.

Next to him was Alan's, which was dark, the door closed. Their father's bedroom was next to that. Virgil had long suggested that Dad had that room so that he could keep an eye on those two. It stood empty now, untouched and waiting. Beneath this level were Scott's, Kayo's, Grandma's and Brains'.

It didn't take any kind of deductive powers to dismiss the figure as belonging to one of the upper bedrooms. And even though the light was faint, Scott would know those square shoulders and long limbs anywhere.

It did take some deduction to figure out what John was doing, lying outside Scott's bedroom at 2340 hours, apparently asleep.

And as deduction was something requiring mental energy he simply didn't have, Scott expended some of the little he did on his other option. He kicked the furniture.

"Wha - ?"

A sudden clutch at the side of the lounger as John's world was rocked.

"John. It's late. Go to bed."

"Scott?"

"Astonishingly, yes." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "My room."

"Oh. Right." John's face was largely in shadow as he looked about him, but Scott didn't need light to predict the exact expression of confused befuddlement. "Time is it?"

"After eleven. Almost twelve."

"Oh. Right."

"John?" Scott half-hopped a couple of steps and turned so he came between the sky and the lounger before peering down at his brother. "What are you doing? Star spotting?"

A swivel of his head to stare up at the stars illustrated precisely for Scott the powers of suggestion to one in John's half-asleep state.

"No? Wasn't my plan, anyway." Then John surprised Scott by giving a soft chuckle. "My plan was to come and talk to you. But then, she will insist on putting on the best show on the planet –" he gestured upwards "- so you can't blame me for getting distracted."

Scott followed John's gaze.

"Yep. It's pretty. And it's there for you every day of your working life."

"True. But in orbit the galaxy can lack context. The view's spectacular, of course it is, but sometimes it's even better when contrasted with the imprecisions of life down below."

"Can't appreciate perfection without imperfection, huh?"

"Hmmm. The universe isn't perfect. But the stars… they're pure. Their purpose is existence, existence is their purpose. Immutable physical laws creating limitless explorations of those same laws to find as many ways to be possible as can be achieved within them, and just by the act of being they've realised their potential."

Scott blinked at him.

"I know that made sense in your head…"

"That's what I like about you, Scott. Your generosity."

That made Scott chuckle, loose and unstrung, trailing the wearying knots of the day behind him and feeling them slipping through his grasp. Five beers and a good red wine would do that for you.

The thought of beer was a happy one.

"You want a brew? Got some in my room."

"You? Storing beer in your bedroom? What will the neighbours say?"

"Ha." Scott rolled forward, feeling the magnetic boosters kick in to take his weight. "I've had a six pack in there since October. I don't think I need an intervention just yet." He stepped back into his room to find his way to the small bar fridge tucked beside his desk. It held almond milk for coffee, snacks, ice for aches and sprains, and the one lone six pack. He bent down carefully, feeling for balance, and pulled out two beers before waddling back to where John was now sitting reasonably upright, hands resting limply across the sides. His brother raised one to take a beer. "And if the neighbours ever found out, I think the stuff would disappear in a day. There'd be seawater, or frog spawn, or something else equally undrinkable in its place."

"And you wonder why I like Five."

"That what you do up there? One man party machine, 24/7?"

"I won't dignify that with a response," John said, gravely. "You know EOS is there."

"One man, one AI party machine?"

"Exactly."

Scott pulled the top of the beer off and rallied his weary brain to the task at hand. The mention of EOS might be the unintended revelation of what drove John up here. He wished, suddenly, for Virgil to be here. The man could usually read his brothers like an astronomer could read the stars, even if Gordon was currently proving more mystery thriller than comic book these days.

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

He could hear the frown.

"My drinking habits on Five?"

"No. EOS."

"Why would I want to talk about her?"

That pronoun, jarring in the fact that it didn't jar. All too easy to talk about 'her' and 'she'. If the AI's voice were that of an older man, or had the sibilant blandness of a HAL, would it be quite as simple to accept the concept of friendliness, of quirky affection or child-like fear? Had the program chosen the one voice most likely to render it nonthreatening, most likely to engender protectiveness among its human co-workers, in order to gain the kind of emotional foothold it already had with John?

And that was the problem, wasn't it? EOS was accorded personhood, as per the 2019 Artificial Intelligence and Robotics Act, and John, as its ur-creator, had a complicated and emotional relationship with it. Not quite as simple as just telling him to pull the plug.

"You have something else?"

"Had." John took a swift gulp of the beer, before using it to gesture at the starlit view before them. "Got side-tracked."

Scott took a drink himself, then carefully set the bottle on the floor and turned away to begin accumulating steps along the balcony. Fifteen, pivot, start again.

"Well, I've got another hundred and eighty or so of these to go, so if you want time to think of it…"

John raised his beer in acknowledgement.

Thirty the other way, pivot, start back.

"Can I guess?"

"Go ahead."

"Because I know what I wanted to talk about."

"Gordon and Penelope?"

"Pffft." Scott paused to adjust the magnetic flow, hauling himself more upright. "I got all those details, or lack of, from Virgil. Lotta pining, lotta sighing, absolutely zero action. Thunderbird Four is a squib, not a squid."

"Squib Boy. Ha!" John gave the sudden bark of laughter that earned him the label of weird in every school he ever attended. "Poor Gordo."

"I mean, why he ever set his sights on someone like her…"

John sat forward to regard him at the end of his walk.

"Why not?"

"You serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious."

"Gordon? And Lady Penelope? Capital 'L' Lady. With Gordon? The only thing he knows about class is it rhymes with ass."

"Mmm. Or," and John lifted his fingers to enumerate each point, "he's an athletic, world-record holding swimmer, Olympic gold medallion winner, highly skilled submariner working selflessly in a rescue organisation."

"Exactly." Scott passed John again. "What has any of that got to do with an Oxbridge tea party? I'm surprised you failed to mention his marine biology degree."

"I was putting forward his good points."

"And none of what you said even begins to categorise the Gordon-ness of Gordon."

John shrugged.

"Opposites attract. Don't forget, I've met the Oxbridge set. If you've been brought up amongst Sebastians and Ruperts, maybe you might like a young man with more on his mind than the stock market or Ascot. Don't be so hard on him."

"I'm not hard on him," Scott said, even as he knew that maybe, it was a charge that could be fairly laid at times. "I just don't want to see him hurt."

And that was fundamentally true any way you parsed it.

End of the balcony. Pivot.

"So if it wasn't Gordon and Penelope, what was it?"

John shook his head.

"Forget it. Really not worth it."

"Actually, wait, I got side-tracked myself. No, I know what I wanted to say." He pulled up, an arm's length from his brother, and tried to make out his features in the dim light. It occurred to him how helpful the dissembling powers of poor lighting really could be. They softened the essential harshness of his question, abrasive however kindly his voice. "I wanted to ask you why you wouldn't accept the toast yesterday."

And even if he couldn't see the expression, he could see the way John's shoulders folded inwards slightly, how his head dropped.

There was no answer. The soft sough of the sea a hundred metres away, the burr of insects in the night, the almost inaudible thump, thump, thump of the bass in Gordon's room were the only sounds.

"Johnny, you know something's up. It's not just that. A few things, over the time when – " Scott paused, blew out his breath. "Let's be honest, here and now. We thought Gordon and Virgil were gone."

John's voice was quiet.

"But you didn't."

"Oh, yeah, I did. At my lowest, I did."

John shook his head.

"Not like I did."

"We all had our moments when – "

"No!" The explosiveness of John's voice surprised Scott, caused him to step forward as if to touch his brother, earth that electricity through his own body. John pulled back; a recoil he tried to hide by ducking his head and taking a swig from his bottle.

A brittle standoff; then Scott turned away and resumed his ungainly walk, giving his brother time and space.

He knew him so well. The loss of control would burn.

He made one length of the balcony, then another. On turning for the second time, he noticed the darkness over one quarter of the sky, away to the west, somewhere over New Caledonia. No stars showing through a thick cloud cover. Ugly flying, unless you were well above it in something like One.

As he reached the point where he'd pass John again, he tried once more.

"You wish you were back up there?"

"On Five? No. Not yet. I do miss – "

"What?"

A different tone in John's voice, something that managed to be both bashful and sly.

"Oh, handball."

"Ah. With the lovely captain."

"It's not every day you get a brilliant space captain as a neighbour in orbit."

"Or on a tropical island, come to think of it. I've been saying, we should rent out Mateo to co-eds on spring break."

"Okay, one, you wouldn't know what to do with a bunch of co-eds. You'd be chaperoning them and making sure they got plenty of fresh air and good sleep. And two, the security issue alone would drive you into a frenzy."

Scott paused, as if giving it serious thought. "Ah, you're probably right. I'll tell Brains to quit designing the jello bath and waterslide."

"That would be best."

"I'll just have to put up with hearing tales of zero-gravity sex from my younger brother."

"That will not be happening."

"No, I can imagine. Could prove tremendously challenging."

John took another drink. "Well, that. And there's nowhere on Five that EOS couldn't be watching."

EOS again. Another little twist in Scott's belly told him this was something they need to discuss, ready or not. He kept his tone light.

"You're worried you might damage her young mind?"

John frowned.

"Is that a serious question?"

"No, I guess – "

"Because she's had access to every movie ever broadcast, and probably plenty that haven't been. If anything, I'd be worried about a succinct review of performance, down to heart rate and any other metric you could apply to the act."

Scott decided to be blunt.

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"That she might drive me crazy teasing with something like that?"

"That she has control of everything on board Five, including monitoring your heart rate, apparently."

A pause.

"No, why should it?" John shifted on the lounger, sitting up straighter. "Does it worry you?"

And here they were. If John wasn't exactly parent, he was more than designer, and friend was too simple a term to describe what EOS was to him. If parents loved the product of their mingled genes, how much more could someone love the product of his own mind, whose subsequent growth and development as an independent being was due to his own original genius? Scott didn't understand how to calibrate the exact dimensions of the relationship, but he had enough insight to know that it was one.

"John, something happened on Five. And there was no way of stopping it happening, no way of getting to you in time if it had all gone wrong." Scott was gentle, because he knew this would be hurtful. "EOS put you to sleep."

John's response was immediate.

"Uh – no, she didn't. What are you even talking about?"

Scott began to ease himself down on the end of the lounger, and John shifted his legs to accommodate him. But Scott could sense, even with the poor illumination, how stiff John's body had become.

"Let me get the time-line right. I think it was about the third day of looking. You hadn't had much rest, if any, and – what? What is it?"

"Nothing." Sitting this close, Scott could hear how John's breath had hitched, how its pace increased.

"I was – well, Kayo was – telling us both to get some sleep, remember?"

"Yes."

"You hadn't slept since they went missing, I think I was about the same. I did what Kayo said, though, because she's the boss of me, and I did feel better the next day. But when we tried to contact you, EOS wouldn't let us. She was – " the breathing was getting more shallow " – she was keeping you under using alpha waves. She refused to let you wake up. John, she had total control of you, and she refused to relinquish it even when told to. Do you know how completely scary that was to us down here?"

For a long time, John said nothing. That his brother was giving the revelation due consideration was just one of the reasons why Scott admired him more than almost any other person he knew. This was a major blow; this would ask John to consider courses of action that would bring him immense pain. But Scott knew that the power of John's mind lay in his disinclination to close off any particular line of thought until it had been thoroughly explored or refuted, and the brilliance of it lay in the imaginative power that generated seemingly limitless numbers of those same thoughts.

He would chase this down to a conclusion, however repugnant it might seem to him, because once imagined his mind simply wouldn't allow him to abandon a problem until he did.

When he did start to speak, his voice sounded strained and tired.

"You don't have all the facts."

Scott nodded, but said nothing.

"It was – " John paused, clearly aiming for an accuracy that was hard to muster after so many days and so much stress. "You are right, I hadn't slept. It seemed unthinkable that my brothers could just be plucked away from me like that. On my watch, as I was speaking to them. Stupid to talk of guilt, because logically, there was no blame to be had. But…"

"But you felt it anyway?" Scott said softly. After another hesitation, John continued, and it sounded like a recitation of something long learned and half-forgotten.

"There was a sense of responsibility. And that between us, EOS and I should be able to find them, somehow. The thought of sleeping when they might be drifting on the sea was just an impossible one. I kept thinking that at any moment they could drift clear of the EMF interference."

A diffident breeze sprang up, another tell of the storm brewing across the sea. Scott welcomed it against the slight sweat he had earned on his walks. The night was a humid one.

A creak, as John shifted his weight again.

"That night, we'd lost Drago Kasun. Everything seemed so hopeless. I tried to keep my head in the game, tried to remember what Dad taught us about long haul operations. I think I'd let myself blow past the point where I would listen to my better counsel. I went to the bathroom. No, wait. I went to bed, but I… don't think I slept. I'm not quite sure."

Scott waited. He knew John would give him whatever truth he had here. But as patient as Scott could be, it seemed as though John had reached an obstacle of such difficulty that he figured he could give him a hand over it.

"EOS said she found you in the bathroom. It sounded as though you were sick, or - ?"

"I saw Virgil."

A long beat this time, as Scott tried to make sense of what his brother was telling him.

"You found him on the scanners? And then – "

"No. In my bedroom. An hallucination, obviously." John gave a small, bitter laugh. "Some kind of construct of exhaustion and stress and premature grief. I saw him, at the foot of my bed, and he told me he was dead. It's funny, when I look back, I can realise that the head wound he had, the whole look of him, was directly out of that ridiculous horror movie Alan made us watch last Christmas. That one with that actor - ?"

John had a mind of enormous capacity for data, except where it came to anything to do with films or acting. 'That actor' was as close as he ever came to identifying anyone on screen.

"But at the time…"

"Yeah. At the time," John said, heavily. "And instead of figuring it out, using my goddamned expensively trained brain, I went with the good old reptilian core and decided that my brothers were both rotting on the bottom of the sea. So I went into the bathroom to throw up. And – and I - "

Another beat, and as it extended into more than a minute, Scott realised that this was it, this was the heart of it, and it was so monstrous to John that he couldn't bring himself to say it. More than ever, Scott wished Virgil was here to take this cup from him.

But the thought of Virgil reminded him that he'd successfully wrangled one brother in the last twenty-four hours. This task wasn't completely beyond him.

"You saw something that freaked you out." He allowed himself a hiss of breath that could almost be called laughter. "I've had one or two of those moments myself. Extreme stress. Saw a chopper coming to rescue me when I was downed that time, would have sworn it was real until the damn thing evaporated in front of my eyes. And even though I knew it was an illusion, I cursed the sonofabitch flying the thing for not coming through for me." He spread his hands. "Illusions, delusions, doesn't matter. The emotions they start up in you, they sure as hell feel real."

John nodded, but said nothing. Scott's stomach twisted again. He knew John too well. His brother was private, yes, and probably not the most transparent emotionally, true, but he had a kind of moral rigor that insisted on acknowledging and dealing with mistakes and misjudgements to an almost Calvinistic degree. Usually, the challenge when John had erred was to wrest the scourge from his hands before he managed to flay every last second of miscalculation along with his flesh from his mental bones. It came not from any kind of masochism or self-hatred but simply from his chivalric quest and love for Truth. He knew he would never reach it in the realm of the universe, but he could scarify himself for it in terms of his own thinking, his own psyche.

That he couldn't say, here, what was bothering him frightened Scott deeply.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah."

"What did you do?"

Finally, John sighed.

"The unforgivable."

"Which is..?"

"I gave up."

Scott waited for the other shoe. It seemed to hover in mid-air a long time.

"That's it? You gave up?"

"Yeah." And this time, the self-loathing was clearly apparent. "When you and Kayo were doing everything you could, including risking your life in a Spitfire, the most ridiculous idea I ever heard – I had given up. When the GDF wanted to pull you off searching and go into finding the sub, you needed me to support you in continuing on looking. I wasn't there for you because I didn't see the point."

It cost him, but Scott could say it.

"Well, that was the right call."

John, usually so sparing of big gestures, waved a hand in disgust.

"We know that now. We didn't then."

"Uh, yeah, we did." Scott forced a smile, however grim. "I didn't like it, didn't want to acknowledge it, but yeah. Strategically, it was the smart move. I was grateful to you."

"Grateful!"

"John, come on."

"No! You don't seem to understand what – look. If it was left up to me?" John began, and faltered. But then, with the quiet courage that defined him, he continued. "If it was left up to me, I would have stopped. I would have given up entirely. I would have argued that it wasn't worth risking more lives. Not yours, not Kayo's, not Penelope's or someone from the GDF. And we would have lost Virgil and Gordon. So, yeah. If it was up to me, they would be dead."

Scott waited for a word of wisdom to filter through from his years of experience at leading men and women through their own personal valleys of the shadow.

Wisdom was singularly lacking tonight it seemed.

After another long pause, during which John no doubt thought the worst, he continued.

"Now we're all home and I look around and think, I have no right to celebrate or be celebrated. I had no hand in this."

That, at least, was something Scott could see somewhat more clearly.

"Well, bullshit."

"Thanks," said John, drily.

"No, seriously Johnny, I get to call that because I was unconscious and incapable and you went right on out there and saved our brothers."

"Not why I went." John lifted his head to look at him directly, and facing into the starlight as he was, he found enough light to illuminate his sorrow. "Body retrieval. Nothing more."

"You thought they were dead? You thought you were risking your life to bring back their bodies?" At John's faint nod, Scott sighed. "So you're telling me that you're the worst in the world because you didn't think we had a chance of success but you still risked your life to go bring our little brothers home, alive or not."

"There was no risk at that sta- "

"And again, I gotta call bullshit. I talked to Colonel Casey, I know people hoped that somehow I'd put the weapon out of commission but no one knew for sure. And as it turned out, I hadn't. Ask Virgil," he added, as John stirred in question. "Plus you could barely walk, let alone pilot a plane. But no, you were so damned faithless that you headed off into real and present danger for them. No one to ask you to do it, no one to care, but John Glenn Tracy, that quitter, he went and did it anyway. And solely because of that – solely, John, no other reason – Gordon is trashing his music unit and Virgil is finishing off the bottle of red downstairs with Kayo."

John was silent. The breeze intensified, decided it could do a little more and began teasing his hair. Scott risked leaning forward and placing a hand on John's knee.

"I know you think you're somehow at fault here. But – "

"I feel like a coward." John so rarely used the words 'I feel' in a sentence that Scott blinked in surprise. "I feel like if Dad could see this, knew what I thought, how I gave up, he would call it cowardice."

John, for whom moral courage was a kind of oxygen.

Of course he would be asphyxiating through this.

Scott paid him the compliment of catching his first, impulsive words and marshalling his argument carefully.

"I guess there's a few things to say to that. First, I don't think I ever heard Dad call someone a coward, and I'm with him on that point. I think it's a word we should drive out of the language. It puts some kind of character value onto something that most people can't help. We know that. We know the people who stay calm, the people who panic and run, are just obeying the chemical drives of their bodies. We both know people who desperately wanted to be brave and were shamed by the fact they were shaking too much to be of use. That's not a point of integrity, it's a question of hormones and adrenaline. There's selfish assholes, absolutely, who try to avoid their fate at the expense of others, but that's selfishness, pure and simple, and no one could ever accuse you of that. So can we please put that notion out in the garbage where it belongs?"

He counted it as a victory when John gave a kind of hummed assent.

"And as for the rest – it comes down to intent not being as important as actions, I guess? You know, if we're going to be quoting Jeff Tracy, one I always remember him saying was that it didn't matter what you meant, it mattered what you did. 'I was gonna' never cut it with him. You wanted it done, you did it, you didn't think about it or talk about it, or promise to get round to it. I hear what you're saying, I think. You feel like you let us down? Let me down, let Virgil and Gordon down? That it?"

At John's slow nod, Scott continued.

"Johnny, you brought them home. I don't care what was in your head. You navigated for me in the Spitfire, you saw me through the surgeries, you went out there and brought them back to us. Swing it around. Look at it another way. What kind of conversation would we be having if you were sitting here and telling me how much you meant to go out and find them but you just couldn't bring yourself to do it? What kind of pain do you think we'd both be in?"

God, he was bad at this. John stayed silent.

"And instead of that – " Astonishing, bewildering, why his throat suddenly seized, why his eyes began to sting. An ambush, unexpected and unwelcome. Nothing could come from his mouth that wasn't a sob, until he managed to swallow it down and find a roughened voice from somewhere in his chest, near his heart. "My family's here. My brothers are here and I'm so damned grateful I can't – "

Nothing more. He was done.

He was done, and bending forward in obedience to that fact, when he felt John move and put his arm around his shoulders.

"It's okay," he heard John say.

Yeah, it was okay, it was more than okay. But if he couldn't make John see that, he'd failed.

They sat like that for what seemed a long time, and then John sighed again.

"It's the wine. I blame the wine." His brother was speaking in that tone of dry amusement he had, but when Scott turned his head to look at him, the starlight picked out streaks of silver on John's face where the rarest of tears had fallen.

"John – "

"I hear you. I do," John insisted quietly, when Scott made a noise of disbelief. "I'm- modifying my ontological framework as we speak."

Scott cleared his throat, tried for lightness.

"In English?"

"In Scott-speak, I'm adjusting my notion that what I experienced and felt might not be the best arbiter of the value of what happened."

"Damn straight. You leave that to me."

And that made John snort with a tired laugh. He squeezed Scott's shoulders.

"Okay. You can be my demented, overbearing Jiminy Cricket, if you like."

That sounded just fine. They sat there like that, both too exhausted to know if it was a final victory or merely the end of the battle, both finding comfort in each other's nearness either way. The stillness and the quiet brought its own kind of benediction.

At last, Scott patted the knee his hand was resting upon.

"Cool. Then if I tell you to go to bed and get some decent sleep, would you do it?"

The dry-leaf rattle of an almost soundless laugh.

"Only if you promise the same."

"I will. Once," and he creaked to his feet again, as John's arm fell away, "I get these steps done."

John settled back on the lounger.

"How many more?"

Scott glanced at the counter, illuminated on the unit at his waist. "Seventy-three more."

His brother reached over and picked up his bottle, handed it up to him.

"Then I'll stay here until you do."

Nodding, a salute, Scott began his circumnavigation of the balcony once more.

He didn't know if he'd helped. He didn't know if the weird swamp of emotion that had caught him was part of the night, or the accumulation of a month of stress, or just the red wine, as John said. But he did know he felt better for it, as if something that had been gripping tight somewhere inside him had at last been released.

John would be alright. He was logical, and rational, and the ghosts that haunted him – the ghosts that never had a chance to be, thanks to him – would rattle their chains for a while and then be banished by the power of reason. And the power of a big brother who would not let them wail and moan around his younger brother, thank you. Whatever it took, however many starlit confessionals or morning chats it demanded, he'd be there for them.

So. Scott took a moment to work his shoulders, easing their tension, as he reviewed. Virgil was burdened, but back by his side. There was nothing that they couldn't accomplish like that. John was struggling, but had made the first steps towards letting his own burden go. Gordon – Gordon was a work in progress. But now three big brothers were in position and bringing their full big brother powers to bear. Not much Squid Boy – squib, ha – could do to hold out against that.

Seventy one, seventy-two, seventy-three. The counter ticked over to one thousand. He turned to face the lounger again – and the light was just enough to show him that John's head had lolled to one side, and one arm was trailing on the balcony floor.

Ah, well. It was a warm night, after all. Bending carefully at the waist, like the old man he sometimes felt himself to be, Scott picked up the other lounger and brought it over to sit beside John's.

They'd sleep out here together and then wake to see the sunrise together. And maybe by then, for John, gratitude and love would truly begin the exorcism he needed.

And if something nagged under his skin, a prickle of discontent at some appointed task not yet finished, he would leave that for tomorrow. Or maybe another day.

His family was here, and that meant he had all the time in the world.

 **Notes:**

Well, as I said, almost there. Except that little so and so Gordon hijacked the comfortable discussion between him and Virgil in the next chapter and what was going to be tidy turned out to be messy as hell, and much longer than intended. So it may take longer to finish than I intended or hoped. Typical Gordon, as S-L commented. I appreciate everyone hanging in there! And thank you so much for the lovely comments, I appreciate every one.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Dragons

Summary:

The final chapter, in three parts.

Notes:

With all my gratitude, respect and love for my extraordinary beta, Soleil_Lumiere. This story would not have existed in its current state without her advice, problem solving and encouragement.

This chapter references aspects of the Tracy family that can be found in my previous stories; Tumble Turn, and Caught in the Rip.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Part One

It was only after the v-cert letter printed out and Virgil read it through, twice and carefully, that he acknowledged the truth he'd spent days – weeks – avoiding.

He folded it precisely, edge to edge, until it was small enough to slide into his jeans pocket. He wouldn't need to look at it again. Each word was now imprinted in his mind where he could revisit it in the long days to come.

He looked up from Dad's desk to the multi-faceted glass walls that formed their line of defence against the elements. Through it, he saw the grey edge of the tropical cyclone now battering islands four hundred kilometres away, clouds scalloped and tattered, a torn lace sky.

The glass in these walls could withstand the direct onslaught of category five cyclones. It was entirely safe. And yet the age old instinct to look to the sky for danger persisted, and to watch as clouds roiled above him felt ominous where it should only be exciting.

He had to find Gordon.

"No idea," said Scott when asked. He looked tired, but peaceful, as he sat in the seemingly awkward position that was the only one giving him respite these days, cushions piled behind him as the clouds piled above. "Thought he went out a while back?"

"Thanks," said Vigil distractedly. Scott called after him.

"You had that talk yet?"

"Working on it."

No one in the kitchen, save Max avidly scrubbing at the oven. Again.

"Max, you seen Gordon anywhere?"

Max pointed one mechanical arm towards the sea, and Virgil took that second piece of advice as confirmation.

He didn't like to distract EOS with the essentially frivolous task of locating a little blond brother, when EOS was the sole monitor of the world's communications. The fact that his request would be no more distracting to it than brushing away a fly would be to a human was something he didn't bother reflecting on. The truth – and that was a rare commodity these days, where Virgil and Gordon were concerned – was that he wanted a run. The build-up in his chest was as barometrically pressing as the oncoming tempest, and a release through sweat sounded ideal.

He clambered up the stairs to his room, took off the plaid shirt, the boots, the jeans and chose T-shirt, trainers and board shorts instead. It wasn't a look he often indulged, but a run to the top of the mountain warranted it. He hesitated for long enough to take the letter out of his jeans pocket and slide it securely under the stack of books on his bedside table where it lay silent and still and terrible as a dead man on North Sea island grass.

Behind their bedrooms an ill-defined desire path wound between rocks and clumps of ferns up to the roundhouse, and he took it energetically, climbing where the path met rock wall, skirting the round house when he reached it to go higher, onto even more rocky terrain. A saddle at the peak led to the island's topmost point, where the boys had carved out an informal lookout spot that allowed a three hundred and sixty degree scope of the surrounding sea. To the west, the outlying trauma of the cyclone showed itself in a long, low, purple-grey mass across the horizon.

And, wouldn't you know it, directly in its path, almost a kilometre offshore, a tiny figure, white against the darkness of the watching sea.

Well, dammit.

And didn't this take him back to Rona, and worry, and the point of the letter slowly poisoning the day.

For a long moment Virgil just stood, alone and unlooked for. The unusually brisk wind whipped past him, spurred on by the pressure knuckling the sea on the edge of the cyclone two hundred kilometres away. He let it blow through him, T shirt flapping against his ribs, his belly. A second's indulgence; he could fly, he could leap into this wind and let it take him, lift him as he spread his arms and hovered, far above his family, free to let it take him east, into the endless sky, into the slipstream and a constant dawn.

Instead, a careful consideration as he began the navigation of a cumbersome path downwards, towards a sea he distrusted and a brother he had let down for too long.

It was slower going down this side of the mountain, but it led directly to the small boathouse hidden down by the northern shore. Gordon, in his complete inability to mistrust the clearly untrustworthy sea, had gone out well beyond the drop-off from the only shallow water near the island, so if Virgil wanted to talk to him now he'd have to do the same.

And it came to him, in the way that true insight sometimes did, very clearly and with great certainty, that out on that dark sea, away from everything IR and Tracy, suspended above two hundred feet of cold water, was exactly the place to have the conversation he needed to have with Gordon.

He'd do and risk far more for his brothers than this.

But did it have to be on the ocean?

It took him almost twenty minutes to climb down to the boathouse. Inside rested the family's motor launch, a thirty foot muscle boat that could be used in rescues if the unlikely need ever arose nearby, but was mostly used by Alan and Scott and Gordon for fishing or swimming expeditions. In racks on the wall rested three kayaks. Virgil looked at them regretfully. They looked so much safer than a surfboard, but he had never managed to master one completely, and he deeply disliked having his torso wedged into a craft that seemed to capsize whenever he tried turning the damn thing. So it was to the surfboards stacked neatly against the wall he turned, and in particular, the largest, the one he'd used in the past when provoked into getting out onto the water by his baby brothers.

It was a swirl of greens (with a small dash of red) on white. A small consolation.

He tucked it under his arm and carried it out to the thin strip of beach, the only place on the entire island where any kind of easy access to the water existed.

Tracy Island rarely got surf of any kind, unless the cyclones in the South Pacific were being particularly fortuitous in that direction. The cyclone four hundred kilometres away was obliging Gordon. The waves now were reflecting that distant agitation by raising themselves to two metre swells.

Virgil looked at them glumly.

Surfing was not something he ever did willingly. It seemed futile and perilous to him, and even as he admired the physics of the wave and rider intersecting, he couldn't help but notice trapped ergs of energy below the surface and pressing barrels of force ready to plunge down upon the hapless surfer beneath them.

Also: sometimes waves have sharks in them.

Just saying.

With a sigh he picked his way over the sand and rocks and shallows to where he could painstakingly manoeuvre the board out onto the water, and then hefted his own body on top.

God, he hated this.

Sighing, he began to bring his powerful arms into play, working against the waves that were now coming into shore as if they meant it. He took a mouthful of salt in the first five waves, but he spat as much of it out as he could and just put his head down.

No style. Plenty of determination.

And a refusal to think about the last time he was in the sea with his little brother.

When at last he lifted his head, Virgil could see Gordon, sitting almost motionless, lifting and dropping on the waves behind the small surf. He was watching Virgil's advance towards him with something like bemusement.

"Hey, Virgil."

"Hey yourself." Carefully, Virgil raised his torso from the board and wobbled into a sitting position. He hated the feeling of his legs dragging in the water, but he didn't dare lift them out until he had his balance. The waves chose that moment to lift a little higher, and he grabbed back at the board.

Gordon tilted his head to one side.

"Sooo. Whatcha doin'?"

"Thought I'd reaffirm my extreme regard for the art of placing your body on bits of wood in the ocean."

"You're a natural." Gordon was wary, because Gordon was a whole lot smarter than some people thought he was, and he was looking at Virgil with all the suspicion of a fox watching a gamekeeper. "You do this kind of thing a lot?"

"Oh, you know. Whenever I see somebody out on the waves I want to have a chat with."

"Hmm. Sure." Gordon waved back towards Tracy Island, which seemed to rock up and down as the waves adjusted their line of sight. "I mean, there's the lounge, or my room, or the kitchen, but they're all so yesterday morning. Or this morning, come to think of it. Yeah, no, I get why you'd come out here."

Virgil tried to shrug without losing balance.

"Hard to find much privacy sometimes."

"So very true. I mean, look at me. Here I am, way out to sea, looking for some alone time and what happens to wash up beside me but a Plaidicus Giganticus Dorkus, very much out of his natural habitat and totally harshing my Zen."

"Sorry about that." Virgil raised an eyebrow at him. "But Scott's been at me, and I'm more scared of him than you, so…"

"True, true. No one's sc – " Gordon stopped, suddenly, as if the words were choked off. It was a clumsy misstep for one so versed in the art of nimble conversation, and Virgil took note. There was a grim kind of satisfaction in getting yet another confirmation that all was not right with his kid brother, and it spurred him to plunge into the conversation he'd been hovering above for a week or more now.

He began indirectly. Gordon was a creature easily spooked into deflection and superficiality.

"These waves could get bigger if that storm gets any nearer."

"Yeah. Be something to see serious waves here, for once. Hey! We could get a carnival happening. I haven't seen John out on the surf since forever."

"You know Grandma loves to surf."

"We could superglue Scott to a gun board, that'd cheer everyone up." Pure delight on Gordon's face at the thought, and Virgil saw his chance.

"Not a bad idea. It's been a pretty emotional time since we got back."

"Yeah, I don't know about that. Seems like everyone's getting on with it. Good little soldiers all."

"Is that what we are?" Virgil addressed the question to the lowering clouds. Gordon snorted.

"You think we're not?"

Virgil shrugged. "Well, if we are, we're volunteers. And we're not fighting a war."

"Really? Uh, wake up and smell the napalm, buddy."

"Okay. That sounds like a kind of emotional response to me."

"And we all know you're the emotions whisperer."

"Well, you know, it's true? I've got Scott smiling for the first time in weeks."

"Right. Like Scott's even got any emotions."

"Wow." Virgil gave him a look. "Now, I know you're not that dumb."

"Our Fearless Leader? He's got two speeds, pissed and annoyed. Please, tell me he's secretly exploring his feminine side every evening with a negligee and Grandma's lipstick. That would make my year."

"You haven't figured him out yet?"

"I've figured out I can wind him up to Force 10 in about five seconds. What's not to love?"

And that needed a quick riposte, but - was that a shadow under his board?

"What was that?"

Gordon looked down with feigned interest.

"That's a cloud."

"It's overcast!"

"Then it's bunch of seaweed. Chill, Virge. You know the odds of being taken by a shark out here?"

"Better than even?"

Gordon laughed at that, and it was the first genuine laugh he'd heard from his little brother in a long time.

"Virgil, there's the New Hebrides Trench about eighty klicks thataway north west, goes all the way up to the Solomons, and most of the fish in this part of the sea swim above it or along the edge of it. And we're in the South Fiji Basin, if I could draw you an isobath map I could show you the bottom topography and just how very deep this water is. And about five hundred klicks down thataway south there's an island covered in fur seals. That's where you'll find the sharks. They go where the food is. Not out here."

"You can't know that for sure."

"Nope. But then, we sit on top of rockets for fun just about every day. Please, let me take a moment to calculate which is more dangerous – sitting on a surfboard out here or a rocket. Hmmm."

"If you're going to be doing math we'll be out here for a month."

"Ooh, low blow. The way you guys talk, marine biology is a humanities degree."

"Perish the thought." Virgil carefully lowered his hand into the water at the side of his board, feeling the chill wrap around his wrist, the colour a deep, dark green. "You know, I threatened Dad with a Creative Arts degree."

"Ah. Daddy's Very First Angina Attack."

"No, he took it disappointingly well." Virgil grinned at his brother. "He just said, sure. That could come in handy, having someone who could design the logos on our planes. I mean, this was just before a summer interning in the engineering department, getting to see how they made sense of the developers' ideas. To go from that to painting logos on the outside? Dad knew which would win."

"Yeah. He pretty much had our measure. But then, so do you." Gordon sat back on his elbows, with one leg trailing in the water and one bent up on the board. "So tell me. How do you read Scott?"

Virgil hesitated.

"You won't use it against him?" Then he shook his head, answering himself. "No. You're not deliberately cruel. You can be careless, but you're not malicious."

Gordon dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"I'm a prince. Correct."

"Would we say that?" Virgil sat forward, bending to rest his arms on his knees. "Okay, Scott. Easy. He's just fear, one hundred percent terrified, has been since he was a kid."  
He glanced over at Gordon, to see him comically gaping.

"You're – wow, you're completely crap at this."

"No. I'm not. I'm right."

Gordon sat up in his agitation.

"Okay, explain to me how Fearless Leader, Everyone-stand-back-I-got-this Scott Tracy is actually a yellow-striped, lily-livered, pants-wetting cry-baby. Please. I'm fascinated where you're going with this."

Another day, and Virgil would take the time to wonder at the genesis of the vehemence and viciousness in Gordon's ready list of opprobrium. Today he couldn't allow himself the diversion.

"Bravery is not the absence of fear but the triumph of the mind over it. And the idea that fear is a moral failing is inhumane."

"Wait." Gordon raised a finger in admonition. "You start digressing on morality I'll be deliberately putting out shark bait for us both."

Sighing, and still very careful, Virgil sat back, mirroring Gordon's earlier position.

"Okay. So. Scott's been afraid since he was old enough to know what it meant. Afraid of not measuring up. Afraid of letting anyone down. Afraid of Dad not coming back from that first Mars mission. And then, by the time he was about five, afraid of anything happening to his brothers. Everything he does has to be seen through that filter. Most of the time he turns it into anger, and then he tells himself he's channelling his anger into action. Scott's the most fear-filled man I know." He gave a wry grin. "And that is why the guy pretty much defines courage in my book."

This was met with silence, a rare enough reaction from Gordon that Virgil looked across at him. His brother was now lying back on his board, hands behind his head, staring at the sky as comfortable as if he were lying poolside on a towel.

"That's a - different reading."

"What's yours?"

"I don't know. I don't think about him too much."

"I hope sharks aren't attracted to bullshit. There's a lot spreading around here."

Gordon bared his teeth in a feral grin at that, still looking at the sky.

"Okay. John."

"Ha." Virgil gingerly pulled one foot onto his board, then hastily put it back into the water as the surfboard rocked. "John discovered emotions were pretty much chemical reactions when he was about eight. In his infinite wisdom he's decided and determined not to listen to a bunch of chemicals, because brains trumps hormones and the super-ego wins over the id. Great idea. Screw those reptilian responses, he's Homo sapiens. It means he's tried to live in his head ever since, and he knows himself the least of all of us. Those pesky chemicals keep turning up and ambushing him from beneath."

Gordon chewed his lip, then shook his head.

"That's not really true. I've seen him geeking out over a super-nebula. Or listening to that weird Russian music he loves so much. He gets in the feels zone, same as all of us."

"Sure. Except that's emotion on his terms, where he can corral it in his mind as stimulus and response."

To Virgil's secret gratification, Gordon appeared to get more invested as the conversation went on, his eyes alight with contested thought.

"No. John's smarter than that."

"Yeah. I think he's getting there. Last few years he's realised what doesn't kill you makes you more screwed up if you don't acknowledge it." Virgil spread his hands. "We're all works in progress."

"Alan."

"Alan." Virgil found himself smiling. "No filters. He feels what he feels and everyone knows it. Probably the most authentic of us all."

"Yeah." A soft smile crept over Gordon's face. "Sounds about right. Plus, adrenaline junky."

Virgil nodded solemnly.

"A given."

He waited. Gordon sat back up, started paddling for a few feet before he dropped his hands again and sat still, the water swirling in his wake. Above him the sky had darkened in the twenty minutes since Virgil had entered the water, a kind of green tinge in the clouds that spoke of sea-born ugliness elsewhere.

"Good thing you and me are such pillars of sanity."

"Very good."

Gordon paddled strongly on one side, turned his board so that it was pointing towards Virgil. It was about as revealing a move as Gordon would ever make willingly.

"So, go on. Do me. After our very special getting-to-know-you camp, this should be a breeze."

"Yeah, you're pretty transparent."

Gordon grinned at that.

"Through and through. What you see is what you get."

"I didn't say that. No, you've got the kind of transparency that comes with shallows."

That didn't sit quite so well.

"Excuse me? I'm shallow?"

Virgil took that moment to turn his head to the west, to watch the cumulus clouds building assiduously as the two humans rocked in the glassy water.

"Don't you think we should be getting in?"

"No way. It's fine. So you think I'm shallow?"

Bait taken, little brother.

"Hmm? Of course you're shallow." Something twisted in Gordon's face, brief and hurt before being hidden in annoyance, and that wasn't where Virgil wanted this conversation to go.

He hurried on. "At least, that's where you tend to live."

"Well, sure." And new Gordon, hard and shiny and brittle as plastic, was back. "Here for a good time, not a long time. I live for the fun stuff. Have to make up for three of my brothers, who wouldn't know fun if it bit them on the ass and exchanged phone numbers after."

"Sure," said Virgil, equably. "You bob along on the surface, where everything's bright and bubbly. And the waves are ripples and everything's copacetic."

"I don't think anyone's said that word seriously since 1964. You're full of hidden depths."

"So are you." Virgil looked straight at him, meeting and holding his gaze. "What you don't like to admit is that under the surface the water goes deep and cold. And every now and then you get dumped down in there."

"I think you're killing me by metaphor here," Gordon said. He shrugged and dropped full length onto his board. "I'd give that one a C+, Virgil. Could do better."

"Are you going in?"

"I'm picking up a wave, yeah. S'what I came out here to do. You want me to hold your hand getting back?"

"No." Virgil took a breath. "I want to tell you why I came out here."

"Oh? I was wondering. Okay then." Gordon twisted his body so that he parodied a listening stance, one fist supporting his head. "Fire away."

"I got a letter. From the GDF." Gordon's face remained fixed in an expression of polite interest. "I need to go back and face a military coroner's court."

No change of expression from Gordon. Virgil frowned.

"I have to answer for the fact that – they found a dead body on Rona. I told them I – well, I killed him."

"A dead body?"

"Yeah."

"One?"

"Yes?"

Gordon snorted, dismissively.

"Three."

"What?"

"There are three dead bodies on Rona. You killed one, I knocked off two. That makes three. I got my letter this afternoon, too."

A wave slapped across Virgil's board. He didn't notice it. He stared at Gordon, and every one of his carefully prepared words about Gordon's ordeal, and how they would find ways to heal together, died stillborn in his head.

Gordon was regarding him with something like amused contempt.

"You didn't realise? Wow. God, Virge, what did you think you'd sent me to do? What do you think was happening in that cove? Seriously."

"I didn't – I didn't send you – "

"No, I guess not. I was pretty bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about it all, wasn't I? Anyway, s'no biggie. We go, we tell 'em self-defence, they'll lap that up with a spoon. Might even give us a medal each. Mine would be bigger, since I killed and injured more." He peered, exaggeratedly, at Virgil. "Oh, no, what's this? You're upset? Virgil, bro, it's okay. You did what you had to do. Kill or be killed, that's how it goes. Of course, I'm trained for this kind of thing. Water off a WASPs back, this kinda stuff. But yeah, I shoulda known you'd be all weepy and pearl-clutchy. I'm sorry, Virge, I shoulda been telling you to sack up."

If a tsunami came along and collected him at this very second, Virgil could not be more blindsided than he already was.

Gordon turned away from him and began paddling furiously, catching the swell well enough that he was up and balanced, wave-riding, before Virgil could think of a single thing to say. He stood on the board with a body so finely balanced it was impossible to see the minute corrections that kept him upright and flowing forward.

Nothing would see Gordon wrong-footed.

For a moment the enormity of his task bowed Virgil's head.

But then, as he lifted his eyes slowly, his gaze partly turned behind himself, he noticed something.

A much larger swell was gathering there, the top of it seeming to suck up the water below it, a mass of energy collecting in one slow, sinuous surge.

A demonstrably better wave, and Virgil was going to catch it.

But far more significantly, Gordon had missed it.

It was as grotesque a miscalculation as Virgil had ever seen him make on the water, and it told him so much about his little brother's mental state. He could pretend indifference, insouciance, even contempt, but Gordon was running, and hard.

With newfound impetus, Virgil followed Gordon in paddling his way to the sweep of the swell, and up to ride on its crest. It didn't matter that he was lying full length on his board, while Gordon stood on his; Virgil felt the power and harnessed it, surging past Gordon who couldn't help but gape at being overtaken and then give a whooping laugh.

Laugh away, Virgil thought. Whoop it up. Run all you like, I'm going to catch you.

And even as his mind began rallying to the next stage of the battle for Gordon's heart and mind, he couldn't help his own wry chuckle.

Look at that. Even the sea was on his side.

Part 2

When Gordon thought about it, there were many strands in the thread that led to his disintegration. Perhaps not seeing her come up was one of them.

"I always forget just how fast this thing is," John said. He shook his head slightly. "Kinda fun."

"Bit different to the last time you were over this way," Gordon said. John spared him a quick glance.

"Yep. Kinda glad of that, too."

It was strange, to be flying back to the North Atlantic Ocean in Thunderbird One, with John at the helm and Virgil sitting alongside Gordon behind the pilot's seat, grim faced, staring forward as if he could beat One there and haul his 'bird up with the power of this thoughts alone. Gordon watched as Virgil sat half-forward, fists clenched against his thighs, obviously willing John faster. He was tempted to make a joke, say something annoying or brilliant – or brilliantly annoying – to ease the strained atmosphere. But for once, he decided against it; it was entirely possible that Virgil was wired so tight he might completely lose the fragments of cool remaining to him and seriously beat the snot out of his little brother.

So Gordon watched the land and the water rush away below them, and inwardly sighed, and played a few games on his Virtual Reality pocket player until One slowed to a hovering still-point and John said, quietly, "These are the coordinates."

Brains, watching through the scanners from the island with a virtual display of his own, agreed.

"You're right above it. The module is sitting almost on top of the m-main body of Two," he told them. "It's open, so One won't be able to p-pull it up."

Thunderbird One was built for speed, and the occasional stabilising force, but it simply was not built for lifting massive weights. A module full of water constituted a massive weight, particularly with drag and current to contend with. The craft capable of lifting it was lying beneath the one they had to clear first.

"Deploying air bag unit one," said John, and did so. That was the great thing about John: no fuss, no muss. Scott would have made a speech. Virgil would have cried.

Virgil looked like he nearly did.

Gordon waited, patiently, for the large air bag unit containing six separate balloons to sink through the water to reach the target. Brains would manipulate it from Tracy Island, correcting for current or obstacles. There was nothing anyone could do in One to hasten the process, so Gordon kept one ear out for further announcements, one eye on Virgil having a coronary, the massive dork, and sent the rest of his divided attention to his game. He was on level 14 after all, six higher than Alan had managed, so go him, and yay for having the sense to maintain priorities.

"Air bags attached and fully deployed," came from Brains' beaming face on the comms. No mean feat to successfully steer the air bag unit. "Commencing retrieval."

Once the module was up, drained and floating independently, the whole thing would be repeated with Two. Thunderbird One could just about lift Two, cleared of water and without the module, so the plan was to raise it just clear of the waves and carry it to the beach at Tolsta, almost directly south, where it could be completely drained, cleaned out, mended and got back in the air. John would come back later this week and drop Brains and Alan over to help in that process.

It took almost ten minutes to bring the module to the surface. He knew it had arrived less from the announcement of same from John than by the harried intake of breath from Virgil, who leapt up and went to stand beside John. Gordon left his game for long enough to crane over Virgil's shoulder and get a look at the sleek green hull now bobbing in sunlight once more, water streaming across its surface, the airbags tucked in close beside it and hiding evidence of the hole blasted in the ramp wall.

"One up, Two to go."

Gordon thought that one was pretty good, but it was a tough room. John was concentrating, Virgil was giving birth to multiple litters of kittens.

He also thought he might have some sense of achievement or release or hell, even pleasure, when the top of the module breached the surface, but the sight of the slightly curved greenness coming up through the water brought with it a sense of inevitability rather than triumph. He knew they were good, and they knew how to do this stuff. No big deal.

"We're clear here, Brains."

"C-confirmed, John. Can you move the module?"

"FAB." A single magnetic clamp was dispatched to connect solidly with the module's hull, and then it was towed slowly and awkwardly some fifty metres away from above Two's resting place. The ocean was compliant, the swells comparatively gentle and even, allowing John to abandon the module without any fear that it would be swept away or back onto their operation.

"Deploying airbag unit two," John said, and that was it for Virgil. He was out of the cockpit and heading into the rear section in order to mope manfully by the open hatch.

"Didn't Grandma ever tell you that thing about watched pots and boiling?" Gordon kept his voice light; poking the bear was only fun and advisable when the bear wasn't already at the point of meltdown. Knowing when annoyance would distract and deflect and therefore be an essential good – whether anyone else acknowledged its benignity or not - and when it would instead precipitate global meltdown was an important survival skill in the Tracy household. Gordon liked to think he was something of a connoisseur of such things.  
Virgil made growly noises, which told Gordon precisely how far down the anxious scale his brother had slid. He sighed, saved his game, and slid it into his pocket.

He understood why Virgil was so unlike his usual calm block of wood self. Everything about this felt off. It should be Scott in the pilot's seat. They should be in their IR uniforms instead of civvies. And Thunderbird Two should never have been sitting under the water for a month. But Scott was not quite back at operational fitness, they were due at the military hearing in three hours and would be dropped there once Two was raised, and the whole underwater bit? Yeah, that was kind of where Virgil had lost his calm to begin with.

Gordon got up and went to follow Virgil. He doubted if he'd have anything of value to impart, but it felt right that they'd be together when she surfaced again. They were together when she was lost, after all. Maybe watching her come up from the depths would help both of them begin to exorcise those memories that neither one of them had made any genuine attempt to examine with each other; Gordon, because he was the kind of guy who thought dwelling on old issues was a waste of time and sunshine, and Virgil because brooding went so well with plaid.

At which moment, of course, the universe decided that the Tracy boys wouldn't be getting any freebies here.

"Thunderbird One, this is Base."

"Go ahead, Base."

"John, there's a family trapped by a landslide on a peak in the Diente de Navarino mountains in Chile. It sounds like there's been an accident, one of the children is injured. Local authorities can't get up there for a day or two, and the area remains unstable."

Gordon could hear the regret in Scott's voice. They would all be listening to the retrieval at home. They'd all know this was bad timing. But didn't that pretty much describe any situation that needed International Rescue? Something had happened at the wrong moment, in the wrong way, to the wrong people. Their whole lives revolved around wrongness.  
Even Virgil's suit was wrong.

"Understood, Base. Brains, how's it going?"

"Another half hour, I'm afraid."

"Okay. Scott, I'm dropping off Gordon and Virgil in London and heading to Navarino Island. Might need another pair of hands."

"Agreed. Kayo and Alan will meet you there."

"Can you contact the GDF?"

There was a minesweeper on loan from the GDF waiting respectfully twenty klicks away. On it was their camping and salvage gear, the blocks they'd use to raise Two up for draining, and the winches that would tow Two and the module to Lewis and Tolsta Beach.

"Already on it. They're ready to tow Two to Tolsta."

Gordon grinned. "Say that six times fast."

"FAB. Guess that's it, guys." John turned his head to address Virgil, now back in the cockpit and obviously trying not to scowl. "Brains will oversee the floating of Two, GDF will bring her back to the beach."

"By the time we've finished our act at the GDF Palladium she'll be on dry land again." Gordon gave Virgil a consolatory pat as he passed.

"Yeah." He didn't look up, and Gordon resisted leaving his hand on his brother's shoulder. Dimly, he understood he hadn't earned that yet.

Calling Virgil a dork or an over-anxious worry-machine was de rigeur. But he should have known Virgil would be struggling with what happened on Rona. In his defence – and increasingly, he felt like he needed one – until Virgil told him, he had no idea what happened after he got shot. To be brutally honest, he didn't even remember getting shot. His memory was preserved in ice, clear but distant and untouched, until the moment he was dragged up the cove and he kicked out the knee (nice) of one of the little jerks. No, not jerks. That was a word reserved for annoying jackasses who dropped in on him on a wave, or pressed for autographs at the end of strenuous rescues, or tried to lord it over him with some kind of heightist agenda. True jerks. No, the Rogalian Regency produced bastards, utter bastards, and the sound of that knee popping sideways to the tune supplied by his own foot was nothing but sweet.

And then things got totally blurry. So if Virgil killed a guy, well, Gordon couldn't really say anything to defend him beyond the obvious. The invaders were armed, they had tried to kill the Tracy boys, so to defend themselves in that situation was perfectly logical and rational and reasonable. In the heat of a fight, it was never possible to be as precise or careful as someone might have wished. An incapacitating shot became a fatal one with the twitch of a finger. Adrenaline was the enemy of accuracy. Virgil might not know that, and really, Gordon should have been talking to him about it. WASP had its failings, but they had gone through most of this with him as a trainee sent out into the world with a pistol and a mandate to serve and protect. Gordon knew this stuff. He could have said something, offered some kind of dispensation.

But he hadn't. And now they were running out of time.

He didn't know why he hadn't sat Virgil down once they came in off the sea that night and had a heart to heart. He didn't know why he rinsed off and sauntered in as if their brief back and forth in the dying twilight had been some kind of surf brahs' chat full of nothing but waves. He did know that Virgil was hurting, and that that hurt him, too, and there was a welling sympathy and care and deep desire to ease his brother's burden right there, under his skin.

It should have been easy. Gordon looked after his brothers in any number of ways. Often in oblique forays into silliness when they needed it most, but also in simple offers to listen or direct affirmations of respect and love, and it was something he never thought to shirk from. He rejoiced looking after all kinds of creatures, and humans in his extended family were at the top of his hierarchy of care.

Instead, he joked with Scott, and teased Alan, and kept sending little hand grenades of nothing but bubbles over at Virgil.

Because every time he tried the justification routine something dark and terrible rushed up at him like one of those sharks Virgil was so scared of. Gaping maws and rows of teeth crashing upwards through darkness that carried the scents of North Sea wind and waves, and whatever destruction it brought, he knew only one thing.

He deserved it.

He'd talked with Scott instead. That was a surprise in itself. It wasn't that they never talked, or didn't get along. It wasn't that they didn't enjoy each other's company. It was just that there was always something there with Scott, always a hidden reef in their interactions that the ease of their back and forth sometimes snagged on when the tide was low; some kind of expectation that Gordon always felt he wasn't quite reaching, some kind of measuring up that he kept falling away from. Sometimes open, mostly hidden in the backwash, but always there.

It was one of their better ones, all things considered, but the rocks scraped him anyway.

 _..."Gordon? Got a minute?"_

 _Gordon stood watching as Virgil began to stomp past to follow Alan upstairs, clearly surrendering the fight for the night. He needed to reach out as his brother brushed past him. He hated it when one of his brothers was as unhappy as Virgil so clearly was, and the guy had come out surfing, at dusk, just to reach out to him, despite being the original Barney with his fear and dislike of the open water. As an effort towards open communication it earned a hell of a lot of points, and the least he, Gordon, could do was raise one hand and reach his fingertips up fifteen inches, far enough to snag Virgil's sleeve as he went by, his shoulders sagging, his face downcast. Just one tiny movement, one moment of the slightest effort, and Virgil's march of gloom would be stayed. He would stop, and look down at the fingers on his sleeve, and a spark of hope would come into those big sad eyes, and Gordon's mouth would open and he'd say, "Virge. Come on, let's talk."_

 _This was the guy who spent those hideous days with him in the hospital. This was the guy who always, always had his back, his shoulders broad enough for each of his brothers and their hurts willingly assumed as his own burden._

 _This was Virgil, for chrissakes._

 _And good old Gordon stayed as still as a stone. Good old Gordon watched as another weight landed on Virgil's shoulders, piled there by a little brother who owed him so much and paid him in worry._

 _Instead of reaching out to Virgil, Gordon's smart, smart mouth said brightly, "Sure, Scotty. Whaddya want?"_

 _And Gordon's eyes watched Virgil climbing the stairs, and Gordon's smart, smart brain wondered how his brother could drag himself up them with all that hurting bowing him down._

 _They waited, he and Scott, until Virgil had gone. Hey, consideration and kindness, that was their bywords, right?_

 _Scott waved towards the mustard seat in the conversation pit. "I guess Virgil told you about the military coroners' court?"_

" _Yeah. Bummer."_

" _And I guess you're going, too."_

" _On fire tonight."_

" _Good." Scott gave him that look, the one that said 'I'm being serious here, sit yourself down and don't mess with me'. But as a tractor beam effort, it was at half wattage. Scott couldn't bring himself to go full on Death Star just yet, and part of Gordon wondered why. "I guess I'm also right in saying that you're not going simply as a witness for Virgil. I'm guessing you have something they want to discuss directly with you?"_

" _Who-ee, Scott. Dang. Smokin' there, big bro."_

 _Gordon dropped down on the seat, all loose limbs and lightness, relaxed after playing on the open water and at ease in the surf of this particular conversation._

 _Scott shrugged._

" _Stands to reason. If what Virgil's told me is right, you went – around? Into the cove to create a distraction?"_

" _Something like that."_

 _The first sign of jaggedness underneath._

" _What does that mean? Did you go around into the cove by yourself or not?"_

 _Gordon matched Scott's shrug._

" _Sure."_

" _So – Virgil mentioned gunfire."_

" _Yep."_

" _But you survived that?"_

 _Gordon made a show of patting himself down._

" _I hope so? Think I'm here in one piece."_

" _Well, until they shot you on the cliff," Scott said drily, and his bluntness surprised Gordon._

 _Delighted him, really._

 _So much easier when the rocks were clearly seen out of the white water._

" _Yeah, that was where my cunning plan fell apart."_

 _Scott leant forward, wincing a little as the move obviously pushed his pelvis in directions it wasn't happy to go._

" _You needed to keep them busy for long enough to allow Virgil to wreck the EMF weapon. Given they were armed, that must have taken some fancy footwork."_

" _And then some. You should have seen me, Scooter. I was pretty badass, if I say so myself. Pretty badass. Which means pretty and badass. It was a beautiful thing."_

" _Mmm." Scott's expression was wry. "Forgive me if I doubt my general enthusiasm for watching any of my brothers dodge bullets."_

" _Even me?"  
"Even you, astonishingly enough. Maybe especially you. Maybe I know just how reckless you can be."_

 _There was another of those rocky points, taking a scrape of flesh._

" _Or, you know, I do stuff that needs to be done and I don't make a fuss about it. You say reckless, I say required level of badassery, given the situation."_

" _And the situation was a gang of armed thugs trying to kill you."_

 _Gordon waved a hand._

" _Wasn't as bad as that. They were too surprised to do much of anything really."_

" _Gordon." Something different in Scott's voice, now. If he didn't know better, he'd say his big brother almost sounded sad. "You got your own letter."_

 _Ah. Put directly, that was a fact Gordon would never lie about._

" _Yeah. Couple of souvenirs on Rona."_

 _Scott nodded, but not happily._

" _I figured. The minute Virgil told me about how it all went down, I figured. Chances were, you'd had to take some pretty direct action down there."_

" _I do love me a good euphemism." Gordon looked about himself. "You know, if we're having this conversation, I think we need whisky. Two old warriors discussing our glorious battle deeds? We need booze. It's the rule."_

 _Scott indicated with his head._

" _I'm not going to insult you by telling you where Dad hid the good stuff."_

 _Gordon chuckled and leapt up, light footed and easy, to the bookshelf where he unlocked the miniature Arc De Triomphe to reveal the bottle within. "Found it second day on the island. Dad always did think he was more mysterious than he actually was."_

" _We all have our misconceptions." Scott took the glass of malt gratefully. "You know, I could get used to down-time."_

" _Sure. We could become like those old South Sea colonialists, old alcoholics sitting on the balcony watching the sunsets and rotting from the inside out."_

" _You do paint an attractive picture." Scott took a sip, sighed. "Gordon, I can never tell what you're really thinking, not like Virgil can."_

" _Like Virgil thinks he can, you mean."_

 _Scott half-raised the glass. Touché._

" _I guess I – look. I'm not going to lecture you or – or try to counsel you. I just wanted to say that – well, maybe I've been there. I've had to deal with killing. It's not something that anyone with a conscience gets over easily, and despite your regular idiocy, you do have a conscience."_

 _And that last line was a blessing, because the first few were nasty shocks to his system. Not entirely unexpected, but truly, horribly real when speculation was confirmed in such a simple way. Gordon grabbed the out, because he called himself a hero but cowardice was just so damned easy sometimes._

" _Wow. That's the sweetest thing you ever said to me."_

 _Scott grimaced, obviously regretting the line he'd thrown._

" _I'm serious. It's nothing you need to joke about. People will – you will find people to understand and help you."_

" _Yeah, I know."_

" _Do you?"_

" _Hey, Scotty, I've got the training, dude. I know the drill. Trust me, I know what I'm doing here, and if my head gets outta whack, I'll go see a counsellor or do regression therapy or something."_

 _Scott sighed._

" _If you regressed any further you'd be an embryo."_

" _Yay for Man Talk."_

" _Just – "_

" _It's okay. Really. It's gonna be fine. I'll keep an eye on Virgil for you, and we'll get through this court thing. They'll get it, even if no one else will, they're military. Sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet, right? Or shoot it. Whatever." Gordon stood up and drained his glass. "Thanks for the talk. And the whisky. Stop worrying so much, you're going gray before your time and I don't want people thinking I've got an old man for a brother."_

...And that was that. Talk done, manliness employed, whisky emptied, goodnight all. Taken as a rehearsal for the chat he need with Virgil, not too bad at all.

Except opening night for that talk hadn't rolled around, and here they were sitting side by side but nowhere together, holding on tight to the seat as John sent One arcing around towards the south but leaving so much else loose and un-readied as they hurtled towards their biggest performance as a duo.

Still, Gordon found resilience in whatever lay at hand, and given their current attire, there were compensations. Having the best taste in everything of all the Tracy boys was something for which Gordon was always grateful.

But never more so than when he and Virgil disembarked from an airport taxi at the entrance to the grounds of the GDF administrative headquarters in suburban London. Several drably garbed GDF personnel hurried towards them in order to escort them to the hearing. Gordon knew he rocked his russet brown suit, and looking exceptionally handsome got him more than halfway towards feeling confident when faced with the uptight squad in front of him.

Or the uptight brother beside him.

"Dude. You look more 1960s than 2060s," Gordon sighed. Virgil's Powers of Grump were set to stun, and he glared at Gordon.

"And you look more 1860s. What's your point?"

That was true, Gordon supposed. For the last two years the fashion in men's suits was to have double-breasted, mid-thigh length jackets, tight at shoulders, waist, and butt. In a black and white photo it could credibly appear something like a Civil War look, if it weren't for the narrow lapels and overall slickness. Virgil, on the other, lamentably off- trend, hand, wore something that was straight up and down, black, and boring as hell. Thank god for the maroon shirt. Even if Virgil's narrow black tie said 'strangle me' rather than sexy.

"My point is that one solid hour with a good tailor and you'd almost be kind of presentable."

"And my point is that is the least we should be worr – holy hell, what is that?!"

It was almost a shriek. Gordon was proud of his brother's restraint.

He had resisted putting a tie on until now, because he hated the damn things and it was always too soon to be wearing one. The tie he chose to pull out from his left pocket now was wide, lime green and blue, and featured tastefully bare breasted mermaids of massive mammary proportions gambolling gaily in a pattern designed to slay a grimly neurotic older brother in less than two seconds.

Virgil's eyes nearly leapt from his head.

"You cannot wear that!" he hissed.

"Can and will."

"Gordon, you – "

"Gentlemen." The senior member of the welcome party arrived within handshake reach. "Welcome to GDF HQ. I'm Lieutenant Byers, these are Lieutenants Q'wenzay and Mills."

"Gordon Tracy." He took the offered hand, ignoring the faint double-take of Lieutenant Mills at the sight of his tie. Byers was far too experienced to show even a flicker of reaction. "And this is my brother, Virgil Tracy."

"Pleased to meet you," said Byers, shaking a distracted Virgil's hand. "If you'll come with us?"

The military invitation-that-wasn't. Gordon found it amusing, even when he was part of it. There was a kind of ritualised skill in being pleasingly, politely implacable.

Penelope had it mastered by the time she was five years old.

Dammit. There was no place for Penny in his thoughts today. Which was always a pity, but had become necessity since Edinburgh.

He'd been appalling in Edinburgh.

Byers fell into step beside them, with Mills and Q'wenzay behind, and they were escorted towards the largest of the buildings in front of them, a Georgian edifice of cream porticoes and many-paned windows. Gordon felt Virgil combusting beside him.

Among Gordon's many expressions of care for his brothers was a readiness to make a fool of himself in order to elevate them out of their own self-imposed spirals of doubt or worry. It worked on all of them except John, who could see through him with one raise of a ginger eyebrow. It worked brilliantly for Virgil, who was now busily sending Gordon glares rather than the stifling concern he had manifested towards him for days. And annoyed Virgil was one energized and ready to deal with officialdom in all its hydra-headed ways, so Gordon considered he'd done a pretty fair job as far as Virgil and the hearing went. Ten bucks well spent on the tie in Hawai'i. He had another, more appropriate one tucked into his right hand pocket for the actual court.

They stepped out of London's gentle April sunshine into the gloom of the GDF central administration building, a commandeered and re-purposed Chiswick House, and as Gordon considered his current mood and awesomeness, he felt both were at an acceptably solid level, if not the kind of stratospheric standards he liked to stick to. He knew his lines, he knew his motivation, and he'd done what he could to bring his partner along with him.

Raise the curtain, fellas, let's get this over with.

Until possibly the last person Gordon wanted to see rose with elegant ease from the bench outside the courtroom.

"P- Penelope?"

"Lady Penelope." Virgil sounded far more together. "This is a surprise. Good to see you."

"What are you doing here?" Well, Edinburgh set a standard he may as well live down to. Penelope's glance at him was perfection; disdain and dismissal frozen under a politeness so exquisite it burned.

"Hello, Virgil. Gordon. I just popped by at John's request. He thought I could give you a lift to Tolsta in FAB1 when you're done."

"It might take a while," said Virgil, apologetically, but Gordon could see how the thought of his reclaimed 'bird had brightened him.

"It's no bother. I thought I'd let you know I'm around, and then I'll go and see one of the liaison officers here with whom I keep in touch. Quite a lot to discuss regarding our Luddite friends. Just ask for Major Arbuthnot when you're ready to go."

"I appreciate it." Virgil made up in warmth what Gordon so signally lacked. "Penelope – do you know who's presiding here today?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. General Afemui. Brilliant, tough, and universally respected." Penelope took one of Virgil's hands and looked into his eyes in a way that made Gordon's toes curl. "She'll see to it that this is done with care for all parties, Virgil. You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm not – well, I am nervous." Virgil's big sad eyes drank in her kindness. Why wouldn't they? Penelope looking at you like that was like basking in the sun, and Gordon knew only too well that he was the one who'd pulled the clouds over himself. She'd never look at him like that again. To see it this close and be left in the cold was something he was only just beginning to understand in its brutality.

"That's perfectly understandable. But remember, they're not looking to blame anyone. They're doing this because they must, not because they want to. Truly, you have nothing to fear."

"Thanks, Penelope." However or whoever put it there, it was good to see a smile on his big brother's face.

"Right. Well, I'll see you two afterwards. Best of luck." She barely glanced at Gordon as she swept away, and he stood there looking after her as if there was still a point in the pursuit. Virgil stood beside him, watching her go, and then at last he gave a low whistle.

"Wow. Whatever you did, you did it thoroughly. She is so mad at you."

"Gentlemen? This way, please." Byers, who'd waited courteously aside as they'd met Penelope, now reimposed himself on proceedings. They followed him through magnificently carved oak doors into a spacious room featuring long Georgian windows. Gordon could tell from the way the light refracted slightly that the glass was terellium-reinforced, impervious to all attacks but the most powerful of direct missiles, and presumably strong enough to bounce back falsehoods into the midst of the personnel gathered below them at tables set about the room. Byers led them to chairs among a handful of other people including Drago Kasun, who gave them a nod and the hint of a conspiratorial smile.

Gordon looked about him. A lot of fruit salad on a lot of shoulders and chests. He spotted the general in seconds – less because he was good at identifying rank than due to the fact that her charisma dragged all eyes upon her even before the braid and the medals announced her station.

"You okay, Virge?"

"Fine. Just please will you – oh thank God." It was fervent, and Gordon chuckled. He'd replaced the tie.

Proceedings opened several minutes later. After the title and nature of the court was announced by a clerk, General Afemui spoke.

"Thank you all for being here today. The recent incident with the Rogalian Regency was an unfortunate and tragic one. The World Council has expressed in the strongest terms its determination to never again be held to ransom by individuals in the way it was during this incident, and it's a determination I and all senior ranks of the GDF share. This coronial court is part of the examination of what occurred during the incident and will contribute to recommendations for the revision or creation of protocols to ensure this never happens again.

"The examination of the military response in its various forms throughout is not part of the agenda today. That examination is ongoing and being conducted under the auspices of Brigadier-General McFarlane. All parties gathered here are concerned with one aspect of the insurgency, and that is the action on Rona Island on the 16th of March this year.

"This morning we heard from Captain Wing-Jan regarding his actions in attaining Rona Island, capturing the combatants and neutralising the situation, and once again I commend him for his courage and efficiency in taking control of the island with the loss of no lives under his command and only minor injury to two of the insurgents.

"At the time of taking the island, Captain Wing-Jan discovered several bodies, previously deceased. They have since been identified as Juan Ignacio Munoz, Tyrone Calhoun and Dolan Shearwater. This coronial court is convened to examine how those people came to be deceased. It does so without prejudice or intent to assign blame; nevertheless it remains within the purview of this court to refer individual persons to the proper authorities for criminal investigation if the court's findings indicate such measures are warranted."

Throughout this speech, Gordon felt his insides quietly dry up. The woman was terrifying in her sheer force of command; in the face of it, every atom of prankster in him shrivelled to hide somewhere behind his balls, currently residing near his appendix.

"You have each been advised at the time of initial communication of your rights at such a proceedings. If you do not wish to answer questions put to you by the coronial court, you may excuse yourself from doing so. This is not an admission of guilt, and is your inalienable right under World Council and UK law. Please indicate now if any of you wish to exercise that right here today, or if you feel you have not been sufficiently counselled regarding this right, or if you wish to avail yourself of this right but do not have legal representation present."

Virgil shifted uneasily beside him, and Gordon almost found the courage for a grin. Facing down tornadoes, hurricanes, cyclones or wildfires? Easy. General Afemui? Eh, not so much.

"Very well. I hereby note that all present are here willingly and have waived right to refuse to give evidence. Major Tate, if you will."

Major Tate, a huge, red-haired man with an electronic tablet, and a tablet connection display embedded in his palm, rose to lead the assembly in the oath of allegiance to the World Council and then a second oath of commitment to truth in the immediate coronial inquiry. At the conclusion of both, he tapped on his palm and a map of Rona appeared on a holo-screen in the centre of the room. On the map were three red dots; one near the cove, two within it.

"As included in various reports concerning the action, and as offered in evidence this morning by Captain Wing-Jan, three previously deceased bodies were discovered on Rona Island on the evening of March 16th when he landed there and took control of it. The survivors told Captain Wing-Jan that the persons responsible for the deaths were in fact members of International Rescue, as indicated by their distinct uniforms. The members of the Rogalian Regency explained to Captain Wing-Jan that they were well-informed regarding the uniforms as members of their organisation had been thwarted by a member of International Rescue two summers ago in a previous attack upon society in general in London. Upon interrogation of the survivors, now prisoners at the World Council's pleasure, it was discovered that one of the International Rescue members was Virgil Tracy, present here today."

"How was this identification made, Major?"

"One of the survivors was able to identify Virgil Tracy as being one of those on Rona Island. It appears he has some infamy amongst the insurgents already due to the part he played in thwarting their efforts in 2060."

"Understood."

"The other person present was identified as Gordon Tracy after recourse to various photographs and other aids. He is also here today. Both men agreed that they were on the island and present at the time of the deaths."

"Thank you, Major." General Afemui turned her gaze towards another man. Thin-lipped, hard-eyed, gray hair bristling in a short crop on his high domed head, he looked like the spiritual descendant of the cold and callous zealots who once burned witches for sport. The man nodded and tapped at a screen before him.

"I'd like to ask Virgil Tracy to come forward."

Gordon managed to do what he couldn't when it would have helped; he reached over and gently squeezed Virgil's hand. He felt the momentary pressure in return, then Virgil was up and over to the chair and table directly beneath the large windows, caught in the sunlight and haloed by it as he sat.

"Mister Tracy, I am Captain Coulter, and I'll be leading you through your recollections of March 16 here today. Please do not be nervous; the court is interested in establishing facts, not apportioning blame."

This comforting speech was delivered with the warmth of a vulture overdue for a feed.

Unlike an American court of law, no one stood up and wandered around. Captain Coulter spoke from his place seated at the table to General Afemui's left.

"Mister Tracy, can you please state your name, age, qualifications and occupation for the record?"

"My name is Virgil Grissom Tracy, I'm 26, I have an Honours degree in engineering from the Denver School of Advanced Technology, I'm an ATP certified pilot and am presently employed as a rescue operative with International Rescue."

"Mister Tracy, can you tell us how you came to be on Rona Island?"

"Uh – yes. We were in one of our craft and coming back from a rescue in the Arctic on March 10th when we lost all power and crashed in the Atlantic."

"This loss of power – do you know what caused it?"

Virgil nodded.

"We didn't know it at the time, though we figured it out later. It was an EMF attack, similar to the one I'd experienced a couple of years ago over London. We managed to fire up our VTOLs at about three hundred feet during the descent, gave us a few seconds of lift which slowed our rate of descent long enough for us to survive the crash. Once in the water we cleared our submersible and headed south-east to get into the North Sea. We had very little power, so we took it very slowly. Ended up hitting a rock near Rona, managed to get up and onto the land and figured out how to survive for the week before the Rogalian Regency arrived."

Coulter frowned.

"Succinctly put, Mister Tracy."

"I like to keep things succinct, Captain."

If Gordon had a less keen awareness of Virgil's compulsion to protect, he would have wondered at the way Virgil refused to mention his younger brother's efforts. But even here, Virgil was trying to play hands-off with the narrow-eyed captain in order to put Gordon's name as far away from the proceedings as he could.

"An admirable trait, although I would not like to see brevity triumph over accuracy, sir."

"I can assure you, everything that needs to be included will be. A rescue operative can never do less."

This was good. Somehow in the walk over to the chair, Virgil had recovered some of his usual sangfroid. It cheered Gordon's Penny-inspired self-doubt immensely.

"I'm glad to hear it. Can you describe, then, what happened on the morning of March 16?"

"Certainly." Virgil's rich baritone held natural authority in the exact way Gordon's lighter voice didn't. It was a pleasure to listen to. "We sighted the sub first thing, and quickly determined that it was a Luddite sub by the sigil on its conning tower. My brother headed down to the south of the island in the hopes of distracting them long enough for me to disable the weapon they'd brought ashore and looked to be setting up."

The captain noted something on his screen.

"You could identify it as the weapon?"

"It was a reasonable assumption, given the way it was brought ashore and protected while being set up."

"And how did you propose to disable it?"

Virgil gave him the kind of look with which Gordon was all too familiar. Don't be a dumbass.

"I'm an engineer."

Unfazed, Coulter's nasal drone continued.

"You had a tool with which to disable the unit?"

"A metal rod we'd salvaged from the old lighthouse."

"Mister Tracy, were the people bringing the unit onto the island armed?"

"Yes."

"How did you know that?"

Another Virgil look. Coulter was copping some vintage Virgil and he didn't even seem to appreciate it.

"Well, we could see the weapons."

"And you weren't armed?"

"Not with firearms, no."

"But with something?"

Virgil bared his teeth in what might have passed as a smile.

"With our wits and our courage, Captain."

A flutter of instantly suppressed amusement around the room.

Captain Coulter bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"So armed with these no doubt prodigious qualities, but nothing else, you were determined to stop the people coming from the sub."

"To stop the Luddites from setting up the EMF weapon and continuing to bring down aircraft, yes."

"That was an ambitious plan."

Virgil twisted his mouth a little.

"A necessary one."

"You couldn't have hidden somewhere? Waited for the GDF to arrive?" The tone was official, and seemingly bloodless, but there was an undercurrent there, a kind of incipient disbelief, that needled Gordon and had him grinding his teeth.

"There is nowhere on Rona that would conceal anyone for long. And you forget, Captain, that we had no way of knowing what was going on in the wider world. As far as we knew, we may well have been the best and only hope humanity had for getting rid of this weapon once and for all."

"That's quite an assumption, Mister Tracy, but no doubt a noble one." The way Coulter said it revealed the exact opposite in his own estimation. Gordon squelched the protective instinct within him that clamoured to leap over the chairs and punch this suck hole in the face. "So – at the time you thought you had no choice but to attempt to take on the people with the unit, unarmed as you were?"

"Yes."

"Were you successful?"

Virgil nodded.

"I was able to destroy the machine, yes."

"Which you assumed to be the EMF weapon that had brought your plane down?"

"As has subsequently been proven to be the case."

"But which you could not know at the time." Coulter made another note. Gordon risked a glance at Afemui, only to find her staring straight at him. For a second he panicked that he hadn't changed his tie after all. He doubted his mangled remains would ever be found if the general thought he was disrespecting her court.

But his tie was okay. Why was she looking at him?

A pang, deeper than worry, bloodier than guilt, shot through him, and he dropped his eyes.

"Was there resistance?"

"Yes. Two men remained with the weapon. I punched them out."

Yay for succinct. Scotty would love this.

Well. No. Scott would be catatonic with fury over his brother being questioned in this manner. Gordon would edit his version of events when back on Tracy Island so that Big Brother would be spared the heart attack special.

And thinking of that, of telling this story, reminded him of the way he'd rehearsed and refined versions of a different story as he swam around the southern point of Rona Island. He hadn't thought he'd survive in order to share them; somehow, he had, but the telling of stories died instead.

He wondered if that mattered. He suspected it did.

"What happened after you destroyed the unit?"

Clever asshole, Coulter; never called it 'the weapon', even though he knew it was.

There was a pause, and Gordon looked back towards Virgil.

Who suddenly appeared as if he was going to be violently sick.

"Mister Tracy?" Coulter waited, unmoved.

Virgil shook his head slightly, but said nothing. It was General Afemui who leaned forward.

"Mister Tracy, are you unwell?"

Gordon found himself on his feet. Protocol could kiss his ass. He pushed past the front row and was in front of Virgil, whose face was gray.

"Virgil? Hey, anyone got any – thanks," as he took a glass of water from a concerned-looking corporal and gave it to his brother. "You okay there, bro?"

Virgil accepted the water, gulped it down, and then stared at Gordon as if convincing himself of a reality for a moment lost to him.

"I'm okay," Gordon said, softly. "We're okay, Virge."

"Mister Tracy, do you require a recess?" Astonishingly, General Afemui's voice held a kindness that was as powerful as her gravitas. But Virgil shook his head.

"No. No, thank you, General, I'm – I can keep going."

He reached up and touched Gordon's cheek for the briefest of moments, then smiled sadly at him.

"I'll be alright. Just lost my balance for a moment."

"It's those back swells. Catch you out every time." Gordon gave him his best smile, and a light punch on his shoulder, before turning back and walking with just-this-side-of-insolence across Coulter's view to his own chair.

"Mister Tracy, I'll continue. What happened after you destroyed the unit?"

Virgil swallowed, twice, but when he spoke, his voice was firm.

"I saw my brother being dragged up from the cove."

"You say dragged up. By how many?"

"By three people. Two were hauling him, one held a gun on him."

"How far away from this group were you?"

"Maybe a hundred metres?"

"And at this distance, you could see the gun?"

"Well – no. But the way the man was holding his hand – his arm out. I could see he was holding something."

Coulter tipped his head to one side, considering.

"Did no one respond to the sound of the destruction of the unit?"

"They – " Virgil hesitated, and shot an apologetic glance towards Gordon, who gave him a crooked grin and a tiny shrug. Why are you stopping, dork? Just tell it. "They were busy in the cove. And once they were up top, they were distracted by my brother."

Then it was Coulter who took his time, carefully entering something on his screen, frowning slightly at the map. The worst of it was that it didn't seem like cheap tricks, lawyer-ly maneuvers. It seemed more like the actions of a man who knew everything and was singularly unimpressed by every little detail of it.

"How was this being achieved?"

"You mean, what was Gordon doing? Struggling, I guess."

"So was this the point when Gordon Tracy broke the knee of Eamon DeFreitas?"

Another name in Gordon's Hall of Gigantic Assholes. Lately he was collecting quite a few.

Of course, as patron of the entire thing, he was entitled to.

"If that was the guy's name, then yes." Virgil had regained his composure, and was now sending a flat look towards Coulter. "We didn't get any names at the time."

"Perhaps it would be helpful to consider the map at this point." Coulter tapped something on the screen and the cove and its surrounds grew large. "You were a hundred metres away from the area above the cove, where your brother and three men were, those men being Eamon DeFreitas, Juan Ignacio Munoz and Jeremy Palmer. Mister Palmer and Mister DeFreitas were holding your brother here." A point on the map sprang up in red. "You perceived what you took to be a weapon in Mr Munoz' hand."

"Yes."

"What can you tell the court about the death of Juan Ignacio Munoz?"

Gordon half expected a cry of "Objection!" but that wasn't the way this kind of court worked. And anyway, this was precisely why the whole thing was convened.

"I saw the man raise his hand and strike my brother. Then – then I saw him raise the same hand and shoot him."

Virgil's voice was as dark and rich as treacle. It looked like he was recovering his mojo, that kind of stubborn calm which was his most common characteristic under stress, and that was good.

Because all the strength Gordon had gained from his insouciance in the plane, and his handsomeness in his suit, and his awesomeness with the tie – all of it was crumbling in the face of this.

Just this.

This was why they didn't talk about that morning. That thing that happened.

Because he was seeing it now, feeling it; the shale beneath his shoulders, as the man, too smart to stand too close, told him to take his helmet off. Hands gripping him, either side, forcing him up the cove and up the rocks he'd come to know so well, out into the teeth of that westerly gale, his hair whipping about in it, their hands holding him tight.

The way his eyes stung in the wind. A pistol slamming into his face. The need to fight back – one good kick, just the right angle, crunch of bone and howl, the last flare of something in his belly bringing him back upright, facing The Man with the gun, raising it now, pointing it at him, and Mom, Mom, Mommy all he could think before it –

His breathing was deep and short. The woman beside him looked at him with concern.

"Are you alright?" she said, under her breath, and he thought maybe she was one of the legal representatives for the families of the dead men, and wasn't that ironic? He gripped the side of his seat as he'd gripped the seat in One and waited for the steepness of the turn to pass.

He nodded. He was fine. It was fine.

Just – nothing that should be spoken of. Ever.

And Virgil was doing just that. Inexorably, mercilessly.

"So I ran towards them."

"This group here from – here?"

"Yes. I saw them lift my brother up after he had been shot and throw him over the cliff."

"You were sure he'd been shot?" Coulter indicated the map. "The wind was blowing away from you – did you hear the shot?"

"I saw the impact on his chest, the redness – " An extra richness in his voice now, as Virgil swallowed, hard. "I saw him sag in their hold."

"Their?"

"Well, the last man who was holding him. The other one was on the ground."

"Only one man holding him at this point? Why didn't your brother try to get away, do you think?"

"Like I said, he'd been pistol whipped. And –" Another hesitation, as Virgil looked straight at Gordon now for the first time since he'd offered him water. "I don't know what went on in the cove."

"Quite." General Afemui cut in, the ice in it reserved entirely for Coulter. "While this court doesn't follow all the rules of evidence one might find in another court of law, it is preferable if those providing evidence refrain from speculation."

Virgil took another gulp from the glass of water at his elbow.

The general turned her attention towards him. It may as well have been an interrogator's lamp.

"Please continue, Mister Tracy."

"Yes, Mister Tracy. I believe we have come to the point when you attacked Mister Munoz?"

Virgil bowed his head, briefly, before raising it again and looking directly at Coulter.

"Yes. I saw them throw my brother over the cliff, like I said. By that time I was already running towards them."

"You had no weapon still?"

"That's right."

"You didn't think to pause and arm yourself from one of the men you – " At this point Coulter paused to consult his notes. "Ah yes, you 'punched out'?"

"No."

"You just ran towards them?"

"Yes."

"What happened when you reached them?"

Virgil's voice got even lower. It was coming from some kind of cellar in his soul, some place where he kept the very worst of everything that had ever happened to him.

"They were firing at me."

"Are you sure of this?"

"Yes." A simplicity that didn't need dryness. "I took a bullet at the top of my shoulder."

"Please go on."

"I reached the group and I – the man who shot Gordon had his gun still held up at me so I kind of pushed past that and – all I wanted to do was get to Gordon. He was gone, over the cliff, he was somewhere in the North Sea and I just wanted to get to him."

For once, Coulter kept quiet. Gordon's breaths kept coming, too shallow, too fast, but they kept coming.

"I remember reaching past the gun. I think he – I don't know for sure. This part's a bit of a blur, to be honest. Everything I had was focused on getting through them, getting to Gordon. I grabbed for – I got his head and I – I guess I – "

Now Virgil was breathing like Gordon. Both of them, breathing in sync, in this beautiful old room with its long windows and bright light.

"I broke his neck."

A moment of silence in the court. The profound recognition of death, the due solemnity.

Even Coulter's sharpness seemed blunted, now that the point had been reached. When he spoke next, his voice was fractionally softer.

"What did you do next?"

Virgil sighed. Now that the words had left him, he seemed to sag a little, softened by sadness, by helpless regret.

"I ran off the cliff to find Gordon."

Coulter frowned slightly.

"You 'ran off the cliff'? How high is this cliff?"

"I guess – 'bout twenty metres?"

An aide leant forward with some data.

"Twenty-four metres, to be precise." Coulter paused. Gordon thought he heard him mutter something, but that seemed unlikely, given the captain's icy control. "Quite extraordinary. Did you find your brother?"

A small smile towards Gordon. "Yes."

"And were subsequently rescued by International Rescue. Tell me, how did they know to come to you at precisely this time and place?"

"They didn't." This was surer ground. "The EMF cloud kept IR from picking up the GPS signal in Gordon's communicator they otherwise would have found days before. It was just lucky that, thanks to my other brother Scott's efforts in attacking the sub, the cloud cleared to allow IR to find my brother's GPS at that time. Otherwise, we'd still be out there. They had no idea what was happening to either of us."

"Quite a lot of attacking for a rescue service. Very well. One last question, Mister Tracy." At this, Gordon could see the tiniest drop of tension in Virgil's shoulders. His gentle, caring brother was almost at the end of his ability to stay calm. The people here in this court might see only stoicism, carefulness, professionalism; Gordon saw the tumult beneath. He needed to get Virgil away from here, as soon as he could. "When you reached Mister Munoz, what was your feeling towards him?"

"I'm sorry? I don't quite..?"

"What were your thoughts towards Mister Munoz at the moment you snapped his neck and took his life?"

Gordon's fists clenched. He saw Virgil go very still.

Coulter continued.

"You had seen these men hurt your brother. Certainly by manhandling him up from the cove, by hitting him, possibly by shooting him. You believed these people to be responsible for bringing down your craft and therefore attempting to kill you both, and almost succeeding. So I ask you again, Mister Tracy, what were your thoughts regarding Mister Munoz at the time of the killing?"

"Nothing."

Coulter's eyebrow raised itself.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Not a thing. He was in the way."

"Of - ?"

"Getting to save my brother."

"That's all?"

"I knew he still had a gun. I knew I had to stop him from stopping me. That was it."

"Thank you, Mister Tracy." General Afemui, with the kind of finality in her voice that no-one would ever even think of transgressing. "The court is grateful for your attendance here today, and your evidence."

Virgil blinked.

"That's it?"

"For now, yes. The court will discuss all the relevant information and make its recommendations in due course."

Major Tate came forward. "You may take your seat, sir."

Gordon was doubtful for a moment or two if Virgil would be able to stand, but he did so, abruptly, before giving a kind of half-bow of the head to the general and finding his way back to his seat beside Gordon. When he finally sat down, heavily, he stared straight ahead. Virgil the bear was in his cave, and he'd stay there for a bit until all the hurt in him was hidden away properly. That didn't mean Gordon couldn't put his arm across his shoulders, just for a second, just because.

Major Tate was saying something, and after a moment, Gordon realised he was being offered his own invitation to the dance.

He stood up, a kind of numbness in his chest, and made his way to the hot-seat Virgil had vacated.

Coulter fixed him with an eye devoid of human feeling, and began his vulturine rummaging.

"Thank you, Mister Tracy, for attending today."

This was going to go badly if Gordon couldn't summon up a little juice to keep Coulter at bay. He lifted his chin slightly, and fixed one of his brightest and most sincere smiles on his face.

"You're welcome."

Coulter paused at the display.

"Er, yes. If you could state your full name, age, and explain your background and current occupation."

"Sure. My name is Gordon Cooper Tracy, I'm 23, I have a degree in marine biology from the University of San Diego and I completed two years training with WASP between 2057 and 2058. The second year was a combined project with University of San Diego where I spent most of twelve months living below water in a compound studying marine agriculture. I've got an ATP pilot certification and am diving certificated to Navy standard. Currently I work with International Rescue, I'm their underwater expert and I pilot a submersible."

"And you were with Virgil Tracy on the 10th March in that capacity?"

"Yeah. Like Virgil said, we went up to rescue these research scientists caught in an Arctic ice crack when their hut dropped into it. Howling gale up top, me down below balancing on a lump of ice and getting them out into my sub. About a six hour rescue, I think? Maybe five."

No harm in letting this bunch of GDF grannies know that IR did some mighty cool stuff.

"Thank you. The Arctic incident is not within this court's purview at this time. And unless you have anything further you would like to add, we will stipulate the circumstances that left you and your brother on the island on March 10."

"No. Everything Virgil said was accurate."

Coulter gave a smile like a sliver of steel.

"Thank you. So can you tell me what happened on the morning of March 16 on Rona Island, from your perspective?"

"Sure. It's like Virgil said; we saw the sub, the sigil told Virgil that it was the Luddites. I argued we should wait until they were onshore, just in case the GDF had already taken the sub, but when they started coming onto land we could see that their weaponry was definitely not GDF issue. Er, which I knew because of my time at WASP. And they were bringing up a unit of some kind which we speculated was the EMF weapon that had brought us down. I mean, until they turned up we weren't sure if it was a worldwide EMF event or some Lou Wood style loony. But we'd talked it through, had some theories."

"And what you saw fitted with one of your theories?"

"Pretty much. Well, Virgil had already tangled with these guys in the past, so when he saw the sigil on the sub and on their uniforms that pretty much sealed the deal as far as we were concerned. We knew we had to stop them."

"You didn't consider talking to them at all? Establishing their intent before acting as you both subsequently did?"

There was a part of Gordon – a large part, frequently activated – that responded to jumped-up authority with devilish intent. A huge sea of sass was boiling up inside him with every dry intonation of disbelief, every ascetic, ill-concealed sneer. It took a lot to keep a lid on it, and he took a moment to reflect he'd never get credit for the effort.

"They were heavily armed. I considered it imprudent to contact them, as it would put us in no position whatsoever to stop them if the talk turned out to prove what we'd already conjectured."

(See, Virgil? I can do grown-up talk, too).

"So what did you decide to do? Instead of approaching them directly?"

"I'd deploy south down around the headland there, get into the sea, get around and come up behind them. Create a diversion that would drag as many as possible down to the cove and distract the others left up top." A sudden thought. "Oh, by the way, did you see they had macro-cam? That bothered me a lot because I know how under wraps that stuff is. I think you better do some digging in your own departments, 'cos that should never have got out."

"Yes, thank you Mister Tracy, we are aware of that and a separate investigation is already under way."

Gordon gave a magnanimous nod.

"Good. I mean, I gotta tell you, seeing that kinda threw me."

Coulter looked as though someone had dropped a fart under his nose. His distaste for this line of discussion was apparent. In another setting, Gordon would be enjoying it.

"In what way?"

"Well, I had to start wondering who was behind all this. What kind of contacts or support did they have? Freaked me out a bit, to be honest."

"And you wondered this afterward or at the time?"

"At the time. Moment I saw it being unfolded around that unit. Which was another reason why we thought it was the weapon, just in case you were going to ask me that one, too."

"Very well. If you don't mind, we might leave the macro-cam now and get back to your evidence. So; you had a plan to go down south and into the sea to come around to the cove, is that accurate? Did you follow this plan?"

"Yep. Jumped off the southern – well, south-eastern point, got down to about thirty metres or so above sea level then climbed down to about ten, dropped in."

"Perhaps we could look to the map again." Coulter highlighted the south-eastern section of the coast. "Can you indicate the approximate point at which you entered the sea? You'll find you have a miniature of the map onscreen in front of you."

"Oh. Right." Gordon looked at the map, well-used to superimposing topographical reality onto two dimensional surfaces in his mind. "Here."

Coulter acknowledged this with a slight nod. "And what were the conditions like?"

"High seas. Occasional ten metre waves, the wind coming westerly so working against the predominant currents. Once I got in, I couldn't do much but go for the ride, which is what I did. Let the sea take me around to the cove then I worked across and got in behind some rocks on land."

"That must have been quite a swim."

Gordon shrugged. "Eh, not really. Seen and done a lot worse with International Rescue." No harm in keeping that hero image front and centre, now was there?

The distinctly unimpressed Coulter eyed him in a way that let Gordon know the captain was completely aware of what he was doing.

"What was the situation when you reached that point on land?"

"In the cove? There were about four guys, and - "

"About?" Coulter said, sharply.

It threw Gordon off-stride, as intended, and he mentally kicked himself. Coolness was fine, flippancy wouldn't cut it here. He'd seen enough of the military to know that.  
But the light touch helped when the reality of what he had to say was going to be so ugly.

"There were four guys. They'd just pulled the dinghy up from the last trip to the sub. I took the chance to come up behind one guy, grabbed him, knocked him out – "

"You struck him, or – "

"Nah, sleeper hold. He never knew what hit him. Then I grabbed his gun, shot one of the – one man."

Coulter nodded. "Again, I would direct your attention to the screen." The screen now showed only the cove, with five dots glowing on it, four red, one blue. "Can you indicate on this map how this occurred? Where was this man you shot in relation to yourself?"

"Yeah, sure." It was odd, to so dispassionately arrange dots to reflect what had been so desperate, so bloody. "This is where I was. This is the first man I shot."

"I see. That suggests that the first man killed was Dolan Shearwater."

Knowing the names? That was an added layer of awful. Coulter continued, as if he hadn't just punched Gordon in the guts.

"That's a good shot using a pistol."

Gordon swallowed his first cocky response, kept it simple. "I'm pretty accurate. Had an Expert Pistol Qualification rating at WASP. It wasn't always marine farming, you know."

"What happened after you shot Dolan Shearwater?"

Prick was going to keep repeating the names. Gordon deliberately slowed down his breathing, conjuring up the meditation techniques he'd used for years.

"It's hard to remember exactly. I know I fired again and hit another man, who fell into the rocks. I didn't think he was that badly hurt, I think he sounded angry? Rather than scared. Another guy ran away. I fired a few just randomly, just trying to get them to come down into the cove."

"Why was that?"

"To give Virgil time to get to the weapon and destroy it. He had the main job, I was the distraction. So I needed a lot of noise. It worked. I think about five men came down into the cove. I apologise for the lack of compete accuracy – " this to Coulter, opening his mouth to object – " but things got pretty busy there for a while. I know I shot the first man at the top of the gully. I think I hit him in the shoulder."

"Tell me, Mister Tracy, were you aiming to kill at this stage?"

"I was aiming in the way I had been trained." This was said firmly. Right back at ya, fella. "Centre mass, shoot to stop the threat. Anyone who survived the cove would be going back up to Virgil. The more I disabled, the more time he would have, and the more chance to survive when it was all over."

"Please continue."

Gordon stared down at the little screen by his elbow, then up at the big one, suspended in the centre of the room. For a long second his mind went blank as he tried to conjure up the exact movements of what had been a blur of action and rocks and waves and people shooting at him.

"By this time I had a lot of small arms fire coming back at me. I stayed behind these rocks for a bit, then made a run across the dinghy there, to the old boat hull here."

"That's a reasonably dangerous run to make under fire."

"Well, to be honest, their aim was lousy." Gordon gave a little huff. "I honestly thought, when I was tucked in behind the old boat hull, I thought that I was going to survive the whole thing, they were so bad. I got the strong impression that they weren't trained, at all. Just armed."

He knew how that sentence would chill the military in the room. Poorly trained zealots with a lot of weaponry? The stuff of military nightmares. Inefficient and probably ineffective, yes, but unpredictable and extremely hard to stop.

"So how did they overcome such a well-qualified, 'expert' marksman?"

"Er, no, I'm above marksman standard." That was just Gordon being a little shit, but really – a deliberate jibe like that and he was supposed to let it go? "But yeah, it was bad luck really. A wave caught me, a rogue thing washing back against the wind but with the onshore current. Took me out, dumped me pretty much at their feet. They got the drop on me immediately, and from that point on, I didn't have much say in what happened."

"Thank you." Coulter did his sneaky little reading his notes routine again, but Gordon couldn't help but feel the beginning of relief. These senior ranks could argue about it all they wanted, but there wasn't a single one here who wouldn't understand just how grim the situation had been, and just what a good job the Tracy brothers had done in getting through it and bringing down the weapon. Hell, the fact that Captain Wing-Jan arrived safely on the island later that day was proof of that. Wouldn't have happened if Virgil hadn't done his best 'Hulk smash!'

"Just one more thing, Mister Tracy."

"Sure."

"Can you remember what you were feeling at all, through this ordeal?"

Gordon frowned slightly. "When?"

"When, for example, you first discussed engaging with these men?"

"I guess I was pretty fired up?"

Coulter pounced on that, beak snapping. "You were angry?"

Gordon hesitated – partly to assess the strategy, and partly to remember as honestly as he could.

"They'd nearly killed us. And we'd spent a week worrying they'd killed other people too, including our brothers. I guess I was determined to stop them."

"So you were anxious to come to grips with them?"

"I was anxious to stop them, yes."

"And later?"

"It's hard to say. I mean, I do remember when I was in the water –" He stopped. Everything about that time as the sea carried him around to the cove was somehow precious to him, something he would never want revealed to this asshole. "I just wanted to stop them getting up top and hurting Virgil."

"I see. No particular bloodlust on your part?"

What the hell?

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

Coulter tipped his head to the side, slowly, the better to eye his prey.

"We already have statements taken during the arrest and investigation from some of the people involved in the incident. One of the men in that cove, Jayden Tapping, has testified that you were laughing as you shot at him. Would this be accurate?"

"Laughing? No."

"No?"

And even as he denied it, loudly, firmly, with every ounce of moral authority he had at his command, the truth of it slammed into him.

This was it.

He knew all about the deep part of himself, the bedrock that got the job done. Gordon never tried to over-analyse himself, and he took a fundamentally biological approach when he considered himself and his brothers, even the people that IR encountered. People were who they were. Most times you just had to accept that the way they were put together was what you had to work with. He'd never be tall, Scott would never stop worrying, Virgil would always look to make peace between his brothers. Alan was gifted in flying in the way Brains was gifted in engineering. It is what it is.

And that deep, dark place? It was where all his strength came from, that essential fount of steel that got him through when others might stand down. It saw him win against higher rated swimmers, saw him reclaim his body through appalling pain when an accident tried to take it away from him. It helped him go into collapsing tunnels and sinking vessels and raging fires to rescue people when others turned back in terror. It made him who he was, far more than the happy go lucky he had on speed dial for everything else.

It is what it is.

And this also was true.

He laughed as he shot people.

Coulter looked at his screen. "I can read his actual statement. I quote; 'It was like he had some kind of unholy glee as he shot us down. It was terrifying. The look on his face was inhuman. He enjoyed it, every minute of it.' What is your response to that?"

Gordon's mouth tightened. "Well, if he says so."

"So you think this is inaccurate?"

Gordon shrugged, aiming for dismissive.

He couldn't look at Virgil.

Coulter raised his eyebrows.

"Understand, Mister Tracy, we are not looking to apportion blame or guilt here. The GDF is trying to put together an accurate representation of the events that occurred on March 16th. The members of the Rogalian Regency are under arrest and have been charged with multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to extort, and more. Your testimony may be used in evidence against them and so it is imperative that we explore every aspect of the events that led to the deaths of Juan Ignacio Munoz, Tyrone Calhoun and Donald Shearwater. Would you say you took some satisfaction in killing these men during this action?"

He remembered the rush. He remembered thinking that these might be the last minutes, the last seconds of his life. He remembered the sight of them, those men, in the cove and on his land and threatening his brother, and how a deep, atavistic joy in his strength and his cunning and his power to protect and defend his own filled him.

He remembered satisfaction as first one then another of the men went down under his own hand. He remembered how perfectly he was able to think, how each moment was as clear and hard as polished crystal and each move they would make, he would make, came to him as if he were being directed from above, a fierce, wild god filling him with purpose and certainty.

And he understood, then, what he wanted to protect Penny from. What made him different from his brothers, different from everyone else in this room. It was because he had the capacity within himself to find joy in death, and this made him grotesque.

Monstrous.

The jaws were coming up from the deep and closing over him, inevitable, necessary. Merciful.

General Afemui stirred.

"I think we can agree that under battle conditions one's emotional responses can be somewhat difficult to predict. You are not suggesting, Captain Coulter, that anyone originally on the island wilfully sought the altercation that led to these deaths?"

"No." Coulter looked solemn, the sanctimonious prick, as if uncovering Gordon's depravity for everyone to see – for Virgil, god, Virgil was right there, he was hearing and seeing every part of this – as if it was simply a matter of ticking boxes, crossing Ts. "I am trying to reconcile previous statements with current evidence."

"Very well," but General Afemui was giving Coulter the kind of stink eye no one walked away from un-burnt.

"Mister Tracy?"

"I remember thinking I probably wouldn't survive. I remember being determined not to let them get back up." Coulter said nothing, his head down looking at his screen, so Gordon kept going. "I remember thinking that I was doing a good job."

"When you shot and killed Tyrone Calhoun and Dolan Shearwater."

"Yes."

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

"You were doing a good job - ?"

"Of not dying. Of keeping them away from Virgil. I thought I was going to win."

Coulter looked up at that.

"That almost sounds like you regarded it as a game, Mister Tracy."

"As much of a game as this is, Captain Coulter."

"Which is to say, not at all," said Coulter, frostily.

This time, Gordon fixed him with his own gaze.

"That sounds right."

Coulter simply looked at him, long and hard, before returning to the screen.

"What happened once you were dragged up to the top of the cove?"

Gordon swallowed. His heart suddenly made itself known, thumping obnoxiously in his throat.

"I was pistol-whipped. I broke a man's knee. I was trying to prolong these proceedings as long as I could."

Coulter extended a question by the simple expedient of raising one gray brow.

"I figured I was going to die there. I knew I had to fight to keep Virgil unnoticed for as long as I could. I thought I may as well go down swinging."

He couldn't look at Virgil. Might never look at Virgil again, the way he was feeling.

The disgust. The shame.

His brothers would never do this, never delight in killing and lie about it afterwards. What would Scott think? Upright, honourable Scott? Or John, that moral beacon, the guy who made deliberate choices every day to live his life according to a kind sensibility honed on ethics and reason? Or Dad, the great Jeff Tracy, how would he react if –

And that line of thinking came to a sheer, black drop.

No wonder he was like this.

No wonder he could be this monster.

He wasn't really a Tracy at all, was he?

A family by choice but not by blood, and who knew what brutal, callous sire created a thing like Gordon Cooper?

Something deep within him, some cherished ideal or notion at the core of his identity, broke apart as simply and completely as a hollow eggshell beneath a jackboot.

He swallowed, hard, found Coulter watching him.

"I did what I had to do to buy time and help save the planet. I don't know what was on my face as I did it. I can guess I looked pretty silly when they shot me." Not quite a snarl but the iron was there. Enough. You've let enough blood. Opened enough trapdoors. Leave me alone.

General Afemui intercepted, smooth and assured. "Thank you, Mister Tracy. As I said, the court appreciates your time and evidence. I would also like to extend to you or any other members of this court the full services of the GDF counselling team. This has been a challenging and tragic experience for you and your brother, and we are here to support you in whatever way we can, moving forward. Captain Coulter?"

"Nothing more, General, ma'am."

"Very well. I would like to take this opportunity, on behalf of the GDF and the World Council, to thank both Virgil and Gordon Tracy for their undoubtedly heroic efforts on Rona Island. That their actions saved the lives of many others, I have no doubt." The general stood. "This court is adjourned for recess, after which we will be hearing from the legal representatives of the deceased. Virgil and Gordon Tracy, you are excused further part in this process, although you may remain if you wish and the court may contact you in the future for further clarification of points of detail should it be necessary as a brief is prepared against the Rogalian Regency."

Gordon became aware of people standing up around him.

His mouth was dry. Virgil had drunk all the water.

Virgil was standing in front of him. He could tell by the black suit, the maroon shirt.

"Hey. Come on, Gordo."

Unbearably kind. Cruelly so.

He got up. Followed, his black monster's heart beating a mordant tattoo.

Not laughing now, are you, kiddo?

The sunshine gutted him anew, and he realised Virgil had him by the arm. That Virgil was saying something as they left the GDF building, not quite hurrying but not lingering, either.

"My vote is a pub. Call Penelope from there."

"You can't." Astonishing, to hear a light and even voice, not a monster's howl. "You'll be flying before too long."

Virgil shook his head. "No. I was kidding myself. It'll take a few days to dry Two out, get her going again. I need a beer."

"I won't argue with you." Gordon began to chuckle, and it occurred to him to note the recklessness of it. Once begun, who knew what kind of crazy would be summoned by the sound? "Some walk in the park, huh?"

"Did you really think it would be?"

"Maybe? I do have form. I got arrested in the GDF, you know."

"Wow, really? You never told me that."

Another chuckle. It really was all such a marvellous joke.

"I guess it's a campfire tale for Tolsta."

"If a warming cube counts as a campfire. " Their hurried walk had brought them to the gates, where the soldier on duty inspected their passes and nodded them out into Burlington Lane. "I know I saw a pub up there on the corner – the George and something. Started with D. Right on the Hogarth roundabout – we can risk our lives to get a brew."

Not Virgil's usual style, but Gordon was aware that the muscle in Virgil's jaw was ticking like a metronome, and that for all his forced chattiness, his big brother was churning through energy just by not punching out the old stone wall beside them.

They crossed the busy road and headed up to the roundabout. There, as Virgil had noted, an old pub, the George and Devonshire. Virgil barely looked at the sign before barrelling in and finding his way to the bar.

"Hey, they've got Tsingtao on tap. Two Tsingtaos, please, and two whisky chasers. Don't care what the whisky is."

The woman nodded, with a kind of studied warmth somewhere between friendly and official. It occurred to Gordon that she and the military weren't far different in their social approaches.

"Find us a seat, Gordon."

Wow. Manic Virgil is manic. Funny, really, when all Gordon wanted to do was find a rock and crawl under it. Or bash his brains out with it. Whatever. He did as instructed, found a corner spot in the light mid-afternoon crowd, with two chairs strong enough not to fold under Virgil's weight and size. And intense need to party, apparently.

"Here you go." A huge glass was dropped in front of him. "That's yours."

"Wow."

Virgil raised his to his mouth and took a long, long draught as Gordon watched, open-mouthed. When more than half was gone, he lowered it to the table and gave a sigh of satisfaction, before looking at Gordon first, then the glass, with obvious expectation in his face.

"You're kidding me."

"Nope." Another long gulp, and the glass – jug, really, given the size of it – was nearly two thirds empty. "Let the GDF get Two onto the blocks. Let them deal with it. I am done with – with – "

"Two?"

"Them!" Virgil waved back towards Chiswick House. "They had no damned right to question you like that. Or me. Damn them to hell and back."

"Why, sir!" All Southern belle and flirtation, while inside him the shards of shell cracked anew. "Such language."

"I intend to get two of these under my belt, and then I will call Penelope. And then I will buy a bottle of malt and have it on me as a travelling companion in the car. Any objections?"

"None whatsoever. Sounds like a plan."

"You bet it is." Virgil glared at him as if he'd just issued a denial. "The hell. Coulter? If I ever see that bloodless, liver-lipped pud-knocker in the street –"

"You'll shake his hand and admire his way with words. Easy, big guy."

"I couldn't stand that back there. Don't they know – didn't they get what we… argh!"

It was so rare for Virgil to lose his temper that he had very few skills with which to negotiate his current state. Gordon sat back, watchful, quietly amused, and listened as his heart tapped out the message; monster. Monster. Monster.

"Alright. Next. You're not drinking?" Virgil stood up again, agitated, at sea amidst his fury.

"Oh, I'm drinking. Just letting my liver come up for air between gallons."

"Huh." Unimpressed, Virgil trudged back to the bar, restrained violence in every stomp. Poor Virgil. The man had so much emotional intelligence that when his id went on a rampage and reason couldn't cut it, the guy was as pissed off with himself as whatever was toasting his testicles.

It was so funny, Gordon could almost cry.

Instead, he really should call Penelope, before round two became round five and they had to carry Virgil out.

It should worry him, opening up his comm unit, hitting her icon with his thumb, but somehow, it didn't. He knew, now, that it was well and truly over. The lingering regret, the half-suppressed hope – they were both gone. Truth was, she'd always be his girl. She'd always live in his heart, and if she ever asked him to lay down his life for her, he'd do it, without a murmur. She was it for him, the one, and that was why the thought of tainting her with his essential evil gave him such pain he would have gasped with it, but for Virgil clomping back towards him.

Things were remarkably clearer now, so it was with a relatively cheerful face that he activated the call, and a relatively friendly smile that he said, "Lady Penelope? I think we're ready to go now. We're at the George and Devonshire, and you better come quick. Virgil's just finishing his second round. I wouldn't bet against him getting another one in by the time you get here."

"Gordon? At the G and D? How did it go? Are you alright?"

"We're fine. It all went great. And we're just having a drink because the GDF think we're – " he paused as Virgil downed the second glass, then lurched to his feet for another – "we're such heroes. We're just such goddamned heroes."

Part 3

Sunrise, and Virgil's butt was wet.

He knew better. He sat down on what looked like dry sand, and he knew the weight of his body would sink down into moist stuff underneath.

But someone in the night had poured powdered chalk and sharp little iron filings into his mouth and head respectively, so walking back to the plastic tarp area under Two just represented a task beyond him, and his head, and his stomach. This bit of beach right here would do fine. And if his jeans got a bit wet, so be it.

In front of him, a set of footprints in the pristine sand headed away to the rocky headland separating Tolsta and Garry beaches. Heavy, sharp impressions along the gently curving shoreline, made by someone running with an energy and intent that should be declared illegal and downright inhumane before nine o'clock on any given morning, but particularly this one. They tracked straight and true to the base of the rocks then disappeared into them. He knew they continued on around the next beach. He knew they'd come back in another few minutes.

The sun was coming up in the southeast across the bay. It was breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity; gentle water, gentle light, the two meeting in a way that brought sparks of brilliance out of softness. It was something of a gift to have such a view when he was feeling so disinclined to do anything but sit, and his soul was thankful, even if his head was asking the brightness to maybe turn it down a bit.

Yesterday's alcohol hadn't done much in the way of softening the memories of the coronial court. Coulter's face still loomed large in his head; Gordon's, too, the way his expression grew frozen, even as he kept talking, kept fighting. His own testimony played on a loop alongside Gordon's, a kind of mash-up of the damned, and beneath it all, like a dripping tap in his mind – that memory, cruelly revived, of the moment when Juan Ignacio Munoz's arm went up and his brother went down.

For all its vividness, he wasn't sure how accurate it was. Did the man on the other side of Gordon really wrench his brother's arm back after Gordon kicked out his other assailant's knee? Did Gordon's head really come up in defiance, chin raised in time with the gun? They could have. They could also be embellishments provided by a mind that wanted to make sense, provide a narrative that fit. Everything Virgil had done was now a question of interpretation by others, and unwillingly, his own mind had begun unravelling what he thought he knew.

Still.

Some things remained.

The driving of the rod into the weapon.

The moment when his feet found nothing and he was, for a second, suspended above the sea.

The lift and drop of the waves with his brother in his arms, and the realisation that One was not a mirage, that there was a chance, a sudden chance, where once all hope had been knowingly put aside in favour of tender acceptance.

On the rocky outcrop a small figure in shorts and T-shirt appeared, climbing where he had to, vaulting where he could. The sun picked up the yellow of his hair, made it a flag against the darkness of the rock, signifying life. Survival.

Then his brother was pounding the sand, coming back to him.

Virgil knew better than to start up the little cooker he had beside him. Sure enough, as Gordon completed the long run around the bay and came close enough for Virgil to see the gleam of his teeth, bared in effort, he pulled off his T-shirt, gave a wave and veered on a sudden ninety degree angle that took him straight out into the calm water of Tolsta Bay, splashing through the shallows before throwing himself full length under the water.

It was so predictable that Virgil watched with equanimity. Or maybe it was simply that he had Two behind him, taking up a huge chunk of the beach. It glowed green in the morning sun, his own Emerald City of the sky. Grounded, yes, but here, and within reach of hands that would bring healing to his girl. Maybe having her at his back was all he needed to no longer catastrophize when his brother decided to do the early morning dip thing in strange northern waters.

Maybe he was just too hungover to care.

Gordon resurfaced, a ridiculously long way out, then made his way back with envious efficiency before finding his feet again, picking up his shirt, and striding up the beach to where Virgil sat.

"That was awesome," he said, and the fact that he was well enough to be so energetic had Virgil growling.

"Go and rinse off, would you? You'll freeze."

"S'not really that cold. And I got pretty warmed up running. There's some amazing boulders round -ooh." Gordon, attention span of a Labrador. "Is that bacon?"

"Yes. Which I will start cooking once I hear the shower running."

It wasn't possible, in point of fact, to hear the showers in Two from outside, but it was a figurative order. Gordon grinned.

"I'm gone. Start cooking, and I want lots."

Virgil eyed him sourly. His own stomach was currently holding a vote as to whether bacon was something it could get behind, and the nays were being quite vocal.

Gordon headed into Two's belly, the section beneath the cockpit that held the sick bay, shower, a small galley and all the extra equipment and spares needed to maintain Two in the field. The suggestion that this section would have been inundated with seawater was met with such spluttered outrage from Brains that Virgil was sincerely glad for his friend's sake that the access doors had held. He hated to think of Brains' recriminations against himself if they hadn't. Sure enough, when he and Gordon first used the manual override to open the hull, they found the section sealed and dry.

They hadn't made it to the cockpit yet.

A flick of a switch and the cooker was warming. He dropped the soy bacon into a pan and set it on top, watching as a seagull (quite different from the ones on Tracy Island) started to circle with entrepreneurial inquiry above him.

Gordon reappeared in jeans and a dove-grey sweater, an old cable knit that once belonged to Scott. The neck was loose and there were holes at the elbows, but Gordon had taken it on so many beachside forays over the years that the suggestion he should throw it out was met with horror.

"One of these days Scott and I are going to get that and give it a decent burial."

In answer, Gordon lifted his arm and sniffed deeply.

"Smells like teen spirit. And tequila. And seaweed. No way, José. This sweater will survive the apocalypse. It survived Bells Beach in '56."

"Sit down and eat, and don't shake – argh."

Another predictable outcome – Gordon shaking his wet hair over him.

"Just for that, you can be the one who scrubs out the cockpit."

Gordon shrugged, then dropped cross-legged to sit on the sand beside him.

"This is a brilliant spot. You did good choosing it. I've heard from a whole lot of others over the years about this beach."

"It was chosen because it was the nearest stretch of flat beach."

"Yeah, but it's also awesome. There are rocks and caves up on the next beach. You have to come exploring."

Virgil indicated Two beside them.

"After."

"'Kay. So. What's the plan?"

"Engine's still draining, but it's ready to be attacked, which I'll be doing. We'll drill a hole in the cockpit and drain her out. Then we get up there, get to work on drying every component in the control panel, checking each one for damage, replacing what we have to." Virgil allowed himself a saturnine grin. "Gonna be a long, slow process."

"Ugh. That's my least favourite kind of process. When's Brains getting here? He loves that shit."

"Tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever the rescues ease off and John's got a moment to drop him out here."

"So let's explore today and leave Two to dry in this amazing sunshine."

"And this is why you're not in charge of anything. Ever."

It occurred to Virgil then, a swift moment of memory so acute it burned; of Gordon, crouched behind a wall out of sight of men with weapons, taking charge of a strategy that would almost certainly get him killed and doing it with utter determination and focus.

Gordon was gingerly picking up pieces of bacon between his fingers, before blowing on them and dropping them into his plate.

"So, what – a nice, neat little hole up there in the hull?"

"Nope. A nice, big one." Virgil squinted behind him. "Figure anything I cut will need to be welded, so may as well make it a convenient access point. Plus, the more open it is, the more wind we get, the quicker she dries out. John has assured me that we have no rain due for the next three days."

"And don't that make a welcome change?" Gordon stretched his legs out and lay back on his elbows, one hand lowering bacon into his mouth like a louche Roman emperor at a beach banquet. "Consecutive days of sunshine. What a concept."

"Wouldn't have thought it possible, after Rona," Virgil agreed, and essayed his first attempt at his own breakfast. One small piece of bacon, and if he didn't whimper as it went down, well, that was just a measure of how tough he truly was.

"So now that Two is almost sorted – "

"We haven't even begun!"

" – when can we get Four?"

"When Two's in the air." Virgil didn't want to move too vigorously, so the wave towards the spot further up the beach was a cursory one. From where they sat they could see the perimeter drones hovering, maintaining security around the module. "That's drying out, and once we get Two functional again, we'll pick it up and go find where you parked the sub."

"Thunderbird One could manage it." But this was just another in a long line of grumbles, offered more for form than intent.

"Just eat your breakfast."

Surreptitiously, Virgil watched Gordon. After a run and a dip, he should be fully relaxed. That was Gordon, yin and yanging his way through life. Fully on and full-out active, fully off and full-length on the couch. Unless completely exhausted, he never had trouble switching between the two, unlike Scott or Alan. More than once Virgil had caught Scott staring with rueful envy as Gordon came off a particularly stressful rescue and shucked it as easily as his uniform, while he, Scott, fretted over every detail of the day gone. Fingers drumming the desk or running through his hair, he would watch as Gordon flaked onto the couch with complete abandon, and Virgil would see the expression of disbelief on his face. Sometimes, the briefest flash of resentment would follow; more often, a kind of fond wonderment.

So to see Gordon's feet now, tapping against the sand; to watch as he sat up again, bringing his knees up so that he could clasp his hands around them, thumbs working in a tight pattern against each other; this betrayed more about Gordon's inner state than his chatter.

There were a number of possibilities – tension about being back in Two, impatience about Four – but if he had to guess, Virgil would pick anger.

Gordon was angry about something, and the fact he wasn't immediately and vociferously sharing that with the world at large was utterly out of character.

But Virgil didn't feel even remotely capable of summoning up the energy for that. Grunt work, without conscious thought, was within his abilities. Just.

"Come on." He rolled to his knees, waited at the change of position to see if his stomach was on board, then lurched to his feet. "Let's get going."

"Time to blow a hole in your girl?" Gordon stood up too, and put a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "She won't feel a thing. No, actually, she'll thank you for it. I bet her head feels about as good as yours with all that seawater in there."

"Can we not?"

"Not what?"

"Mention my head."

Gordon grinned, and the pat on his shoulder turned into a clap. "Wouldn't dream of it, Oh-let's-have-one-more-for-the-road-Man. Good thing you didn't hurl in FAB1."

"Shut up."

"'Say, want some scotch, Lady P?' "

"Seriously, shut up."

"Okay." Gordon stood, arms akimbo, and leaned backwards as he looked up at Two's cockpit, some nine metres above them. "Just gonna wait till you get in there with the rotting fish and the warm sun. I'll let that do all my talking for me."

"You know, if you really meant that, I wouldn't mind?"

Gordon laughed. "Go get your fire stick."

Inside Two's lower section there was a locker with three spare uniforms, including a replacement laser-light and spare grapple lines on a shelf within. Virgil took them, checking each was in good working order as he did so. Despite the integrity of the sealed section, he couldn't help but double-check everything that had been stored so long under the sea. Gordon trusted it, because he was used to trusting machinery under tonnes of water. Virgil understood it, and ordinarily had no difficulty working with it. It was just that –

He paused, one hand halted on the door in the act of closing it. An insight, lost behind the echo of a gunshot he never actually heard, and his brain too badly done by this morning to find it.

It would come. Despite awareness of his many failings, Virgil had a healthy regard for his own strengths, and if he couldn't bring himself to trust in the preservation of his equipment under water, he could trust that he had the patience to wait for the insight that he knew was hidden away in there to emerge.

He brought the laser and the grapple lines back outside to find that Gordon had stowed away the cooker. He'd also opened up the container left by the GDF that held their camping and salvage equipment and pulled out two backpacks.

"Lot of water up there," he said in explanation of the cooker shift. "It's gonna come out pretty hard when you open up a hole."

"Yeah." Virgil eyed Two, noting the slight slope towards the shoreline, the slightest lean towards them. The cockpit was at the inland point, the engine closest to the sea. "Think I'll drill along the line of her emergency access hatch up here." He pointed to the section of the cockpit closest to the rear wall.

"Okay." Gordon gave him a grin. "Let's see your shooting, Tex."

"Thought I'd grapple up there and – "

"Nah, go on. Let's see if you've still got it. Or if yesterday's blowout has killed more than half your brain cells."

"Yeah, thanks, Carrie Nation."

"Go on. Bet you cooking duties for the week."

"That what? That I can't drill a straight line from down here?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Seriously?"

"Bet you're shaking so bad we end up with a funhouse door."

"You're on."

Huffing a little, Virgil took a steady stance, raised the laser, and starting firing it to a point on the hull ten metres above his head and to the left. One straight line at the top, two sides, and then the final one across the bottom, as level with the floor of the cockpit as he could imagine it. There was no point slowing down for the final thirty centimetres; her hull would hold until the last second. With the connection between sides made the rectangular shape burst outward, and a torrent of brown-looking seawater poured through.

"Thar she blows!"

"Ugh." The stream wasn't clear; acid and other chemicals from the engine had been leaking steadily for over a month. Virgil felt a brief pang for the pristine beach being sullied with their work, but he knew they had the means to remedy that. Brains had long since invented a cleaning agent that neutralized chemical spills in this era of fusion rockets and chemical fuel, and he knew that was included in their salvage supplies.

He and Gordon watched as the stream began to slow. It took less than five minutes for the pressure of the water to send most of it out of the cockpit.

"Nice little volumetric flow rate you got there."

"Big words for a marine biologist."

"Oh, I know me my flow and flux. Ǫ rates and Darcy's Law and all that. I could do the math if you wanted me to."

"I want you to."

"Yeah, not gonna happen. Well?" Gordon gestured upwards. "After you."

It was strange, to feel so anxious about getting back inside his 'bird. To feel a simultaneous pull and push, a need to be back with her coupled with a dread of seeing how she was.

Of course, Gordon was feeling none of that.

"Race you!" The idiot was standing there with his grapple line raised, ready to fire.

"I'm not racing you! What are you, twelve?" Virgil fired his own grapple line, hitting precisely above the top edge of the access door he'd created. "You need to wait here and figure out lunch, since that is the neatest door you've ever seen lasered. Anywhere."

Gordon nodded, with assumed despair.

"I forgot you could do that. Remember when you used to laser a door wherever you wanted?"

"I never did that."

"We'd get turned out of a night club, you'd just fire it up."

"That never happened."

"Or when Grandma locked us out at night."

"I never – god, what is your brain?" He hit the retrieval button, deciding against a hand-over-hand climb, and immediately he was lifted up to the access door, swinging in to land with a squelching thud on a floor covered in algae.

The sky chose that moment to occlude the sun with a small bank of clouds, and the effect was to make the inside of Two as gloomy as the underwater tomb of his nightmares. The ones that saw them stuck in the cockpit and going down together under the water, saw them struggling to open the rear hatch as the light grew darker and darker with depth and death. He put up a hand and gripped the side of the access door as he surveyed what time and the sea had done to his girl.

A green-brown scum covered everything. The control panel at his seat was ripped out, and the drained water revealed bubbles of acid hardened into dirty crystals across the controls. Water continued to drip from side panels. One shaft of dull light came through the hole drilled into the windshield; the rest of the view was obscured by the same scum, leaving the light a filtered green. It brightened as he moved away from the access door, but overall the effect was nothing but depressing.

He trod carefully over to his seat. His boots had tremendous grip, but even so, the sense of sliminess was such that he made very sure of each step.

Another clunk on the side of the craft, and his brother joined him. Gordon had fewer concerns.

"Whoa. Undersea cave time. Looks like a merpeople's lair." Deliberately, he slid across the floor in surf pose. "I feel a real urge to graffiti the hell out of this."

"There are no merpeople," Virgil murmured distractedly, an automatic reaction as his mind began to catalogue the damage and the remedy.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that." Gordon looked around, wonderingly. "You've had some real cowboys in here."

"It's a mess." He didn't mean for his voice to sound so despondent, but he couldn't help it. It hurt, to see her so corrupted, so contaminated. Surfaces he once vigorously cleaned to remove the hint of a foreign substance were now thick with scum, and he could see where some creatures had colonised the space inside the control panel. To an outsider it may have looked like Virgil was simply proud of his 'bird and the way she looked, but it would be more accurate to say it was a kind of deep-seated respect, a partnership, that had him caring so meticulously for her.

Gordon leaned over the controls and drew a smiley face in the mess.

"Funny, to think of the last time we were in here," he said, casually.

"Or, you know. Not."

Gordon looked back over his shoulder at Virgil.

"Hell of a ride down."

"Hell being the operative word."

"But we made it. Thanks to you and your violent impulses. Never thought I'd see you ripping out your own controls so happily." Gordon picked up the casing. "There's a damn fine vandal going to waste in you, Virge. You might want to re-think your career trajectory."

"I'm fine, thanks." Virgil picked up a long piece of wrack from where it was half wrapped around the pilot seat and threw it at Gordon, who caught it, grinning. "Doesn't it get tiring, be-clowning yourself all the time?"

Gordon threw the wrack back at Virgil.

"Isn't it just exhausting being such a morose bastard all the time?'

"I'm not morose."

"You look morose."

"You don't even know what that means."

"Sure I do." Gordon waved at him. "I'm looking at it." He slithered with deliberate wildness across to stand beside Virgil, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Look at us. The Dynamic Duo. Back in the saddle again. Back where the magic happens, boys and girls."

Virgil struggled to find something suitably snappy with which to reply. The state of the cockpit was simply too depressing.

"Hey. I know what will help." Gordon stretched across the console to the smiley face and extended a finger to write beside it, in bold letters, 'Rogalian Regency Roolz' through the algae scum on the windshield.

Virgil blinked at it.

"Uh – that doesn't help."

"No, but this does." Gordon swung the nozzle from his backpack into action mode. "Stand back bro – I got this."

Giving Virgil barely any time to get clear, Gordon began spraying the mix from his backpack onto the windshields. It was a Brains Special, a salt-and-algae neutralizing spray that hit the scum on the inside of the glass and instantly drove it off the surface. The words melted away, revealing sparklingly clear glass. With more light, more of the damage was revealed, but the oppressive gloom lifted enough that one whole section of the panel was bright with sunshine.

"Ah. It's the little things." Gordon sprayed a figure eight onto the next windshield, watching the scum drip across itself in the least efficient way possible. "Bit of light. Killing algae. Being alive. You know. The small stuff."

And at last Virgil realised exactly what Gordon was doing in his inane, annoying, brilliant way.

A warm burst of gratitude flooded his body. Wouldn't do to show it, of course, so he scowled harder.

"You going to write on everything before you clean it?"

"It's possible."

"Then I'm not hanging around to watch. I'll be in the engine section, probably literally. Remember – every component. Sprayed, dried, and checked. Replaced if needed."

"Yeah, yeah. I got it."

"Make sure you do. Don't want a shitty wire in Oxygen Tank 2." Apollo 13 reference delivered, he turned to leave, but couldn't resist gripping Gordon's shoulder for a moment as he did so.

A small squeeze that said a lot. Thank you. You can stand down now. Pay attention to what you're doing. And hell yeah, I'm glad we both made it. It was a lot for one squeeze to convey, but Gordon spoke fluent Virgil, and the smile he gave as Virgil paused there was a genuine one.

The squeeze ended, Virgil kept going to the access hatch.

"You're on lunch detail, remember."

"Ugh. By then, this cockpit is gonna start stinking something fierce in this sun."

"So there's that to look forward to."

Using the grapple line, Virgil swung back down to the beach, now soggy with the Two's outpourings, leaving Gordon merrily blasting way at the mess above him. He collected his own backpack of cleaning agent and the smaller unit of pressurised air that would send bursts of drying power into his engine, then headed down to the tail and the panel destroyed by the explosion all those long days ago.

They worked separately and steadily until well after 1400 hours. Virgil would have kept going, but Gordon came and kicked his booted feet, the only part of him visible outside of the engine frame – Gordon's particular version of a dinner bell.

"Come and get it."

Virgil wriggled backwards from where he'd managed to insinuate himself into the depths of the engine. Gordon bent down to peer past him, as if he could see anything useful by squinting into the darkness.

"How's it going in there?"

"It's a mess." Said shortly, and with no invitation towards further inquiry.

"Well, cockpit's not too bad. It's mainly just the section where you did the gorilla act that's screwed. Violence just doesn't solve anything, Virge." He worked his neck from side to side, easing a crick. "The rest's just temporary. Bit of TLC, good as new."

Virgil nodded.

"Brains is a stickler for waterproofing everything." Virgil put his hand up and Gordon obliged with a pull until he was standing. "Plus, way he modularises everything, keeps everything self-contained, I was hoping it wouldn't be a complete write off."

Gordon eyed the blackened engine parts Virgil had strewn about on the beach, and then at the dirt that streaked his brother's clothes with indiscriminate abandon.

"Whereas you, on the other hand – "

"Yeah." Virgil looked at his gloved hands, covered in slimy charcoal. "I'll need to get Max to lift the chem-fusion unit out, it's completely fried. We'll need to drop in a while new section."

"S'okay. Brains sleeps with a spare one."

Virgil kicked a piece of twisted metal further away, but without venom. Somehow, the act of burrowing into the belly of his 'bird had cheered him up. The task, one which had become in his mind something of an autopsy, the dissection of a cadaver, had instead morphed into exploratory surgery. Even if the monitors couldn't detect it, somewhere within, somehow, the patient's heart was still beating. For now, the life blood was human and carried by the two tired men serving her, but it would come back to be her own. The transfusion had begun.

They ate macaroni cheese and watched the light wind find a skiffle beat across the surface of the beach, lifting the dry, fine sand in tiny flurries that annoyed the oystercatchers, picking between each one.

By late afternoon the sun's warmth had reached the small pockets of seawater still collected in various hidden spots. The smell began to intensify. Virgil found himself breathing through his mouth to allay the effect of salt, algae and what was no doubt concentrated deposits of month old fish shit.

When he finally extricated himself and took long gulps of air, the sun was low behind the hills at his back, and the sky was a faded lemon colour beneath a duck-egg blue. He stood hands on hips and drank in the beauty of it as eagerly as his lungs dragged in the fresh, cold breeze.

"Okay, that's it. Knock off time!" he called up to Gordon. There was a muffled response. Virgil looked with disquiet at his filthy gloves and knelt to scrub them together in the gentle surf, now almost reaching the tail end of the rear section, the tide nearing its highest peak for the day.

When he made his way back up to the tent pitched far beyond the waterline he saw Gordon appear above him, and the reason for the muffled reply was clear.

Gordon had his helmet and breathing gear on.

It looked completely ridiculous with the rolled-up sleeves of the sloppy sweater, but ridiculous was Gordon's wheelhouse, after all.

"Good thinking," Virgil said, and Gordon gave him two thumbs up.

"Come and see."

To be honest, Virgil was anxious to see what progress had been made. He didn't want to appear to be riding Gordon hard, or inspecting his work, so he'd been planning an excuse to get up there. An open, eager invitation was welcome.

He chose to let the grapple lift him automatically again – it had been a long day.

And then, as Gordon reached out to pull him in and steady him, he gave a long, low whistle.

The sodden, oppressive mess of this morning was gone. Now, the light of the sunset suffused clean surfaces, caught gleaming chrome and sleek, terellium coated panels, bringing warmth to what had seemed like wreckage.

Virgil swivelled on the spot and he knew his delight was as transparent as his relief.

"Wow. Gordo, you've done good."

"I know, right?" His brother removed his helmet and took a deep breath. "Oh, hey. Doesn't even smell too bad any more. Got kinda dodgy there after lunch."

"That was smart thinking." Virgil felt his smile widen even more. "She looks – wow."

"I know." Gordon matched his smile, and maybe it was the fact of the cockpit looking almost like its usual immaculate self, or maybe it was the gentle benediction of the dying sun. Maybe it was the fact that despite everything the world had thrown at them, the Tracy boys were back in Two, getting things done, taking care of business and washing away every last trace of the zealous destruction sent against them.

Or maybe it was Gordon's simple affection as he watched Virgil light up at the sight of his girl, happy to be here and doing his part.

Whatever it was, Virgil turned and gave Gordon a hug that lifted his little brother off his feet and made both of them burst out laughing.

This is what we do, Virgil thought. We clean it up and we fix the broken bits and we make it all whole again.

This is what we do.

**** ***** ****** ******  
Gordon insisted on sleeping in the tent on the beach.

The night before Virgil had been too soused to make a decision either way, but he understood the reasoning not to bed down in the bunks inside Two. Sleeping beneath a cockpit groaning with tonnes of water wasn't his idea of fun, either.

Now that the section above was not only drained of water and dry but also (at least superficially) clean, Virgil wondered if Gordon would want to re-locate. But he should have known better, and as they sat in their sleeping bags outside the tent with a large heat cube and the waning moon the only light, he applauded the choice. Somewhere behind them in the hinterland, a dog was barking uselessly at the moon. From where they sat, the sound of the waves shushing into shore was calming, the reassuring heartbeat of the planet, and Gordon's face as he listened to it reminded Virgil of the day they'd sat and watched the waves together on Rona. That same absorption. That same expression of someone trying to hear a message just out of reach, but content in the knowledge it would come to him one day. Tension of the morning was now tiredness of the night, and the small smile that was Gordon's resting face was back.

Made sense, then, for Virgil to spoil it.

He didn't intend to. He knew they probably needed to debrief about the court, and Coulter, something of a more substantial quality than "Those bastards", and "I'm getting another pint."

Usually, this was his thing. The subtle teasing out of troubles his brother tried to keep hidden. The lateral conversations that wended their way ever-so-carefully from safe terrain into quagmires from which, eventually, he would extract them both. He'd lost his touch lately – the surfing fiasco showed that well enough, and the conversation with Scott was hardly a stroke of psychological genius - but he'd been doing this all his life, after all, and if anyone knew exactly how to go about it, it was him.

So he didn't know if he should blame residual hangover, or tiredness, or the blessed relief he'd felt as he stood once again in the heart of his girl and knew she would come back to life, but his first line? Was an absolute stinker.

"So. You and Lady Penelope. What gives?"

That was an opening as tone-deaf as one of Scott's blundering finest, and he almost physically cringed.

"Sorry, Gordon. That was kind of direct."

"Hmm." The tiny smile on Gordon's face became frozen. "Yeah. You're usually sneakier than that."

Sneaky? Subtle, maybe.

"I guess I was just wondering who put me to bed last night. And then I realised Penelope was here, and – "

Gordon gave a chuckle, and its artificiality went straight to Virgil's gut.

"And you want to know if your manly virtue is intact? Relax, Virgil. I pulled off your boots and belt. I also rolled you into recovery position and left the bucket by your head. I did my 'Caring for Drunk Brothers' badge at Scouts."

"Huh. Uh – thank you. Wow. I haven't done anything like that for – probably since college. And even then, only once."

"You're a wild man, hey?" Gordon shook his head slightly. "Ah, you earned it."

That was the first mention of the coronial court since they'd woken here that morning. Virgil had no memory of anything that might have been said in FAB1 on the way here, or after their arrival.

He reached for it carefully.

"So did you."

"Yeah, but you beat me to it. One of us had to stay sober."

"I thought that was Parker?"

Gordon gave a little theatrical shudder, and Virgil cursed internally. Deflection looked just like this.

"Is it just me, or is he one of the scariest mo-fos you've ever met? Drunk or sober? You just know he'd sound the same if he said 'You want tea with that?' or 'Care for a little assassination, m'lady?'"

"I wouldn't want to be on his bad side." Virgil shifted his butt to sink further into the sand in his sleeping bag. Deflection required persistence.

"Okay, so, good. I kept myself nice last night. And now that I've gone and put my foot in it anyway – you and Penelope?"

Gordon gave a small shrug in his sleeping bag, his eyes fixed on the sea invisible in the darkness beyond the cube but always, ineffably there.

"It's over. Never started. Died stillborn. Never really happened anyway. You know what they say - nothing of value was lost."

Virgil kept quiet. The waves gave another gentle push against the beach, and another, a calm and constant caress. If his opening effort was clumsy, Virgil still knew how to play this part. He waited, patient, and the susurration of the sea did its work.

"I mean, it was always just a pipe-dream. Way out of my league. She's just – I don't even know what I was thinking."

Virgil took his time in responding, picking up small handfuls of sand in his fist and watching as it trickled through.

"I don't know," he said mildly, at last. "In my experience, unless you're completely self-delusional, that kind of spark doesn't come out of nowhere."

Gordon's head shot up at that.

"You thought we had – " And then he stopped, and swallowed. "Yeah, well, whatever. Nothing there now."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Put the stake through it myself. Really don't want to talk about it now, if that's alright with you."

"Sure, okay." Again, he waited, and watched as Gordon's jaw set mulishly, as he blinked into the night. When the time felt right, he said, "It's just that – "

"God!"

"I saw the way she looked at you in Edinburgh. At the hospital. Didn't look like nothing to me. She stayed by you for days, Gordie."

The words came bitter and brusque.

"And then I woke up and opened my mouth. Dying hero's one thing, recovering jerk's another."

"Oh." Virgil stared into the cube for a little, then said, "Hero now, are we?"

That caused a burst of air from Gordon that would almost pass for a chuckle.

"Asshole."

That was better. Feistiness suited Gordon so much better than despondency.

But something else was starting to stir in Virgil. It was that electric tingle that told him something important was near the surface here, some lead buried but partially exposed that he needed to keep in sight of, brush the dirt from, hold tight to. Of all his brothers, Gordon was the most nimble in evasion. Virgil stepped carefully, but his blood was up.

A connection. Perhaps many connections, and the lead was sitting there, an inch of it, no more. Thunderbird Two, the sea, a shelter in the dark. A love affair twisted off at the base, leaving sharp stakes, splintered and bloody. A coronial court, accusation and admission of – what? Action? Aggression? Murder? Deliberate killing, justification and justice, a predator's smile on his little brother's face as he jousted with the lawyer about games and truth and intent.

"You may be right." He gripped tight to the lead and pulled. "But I saw her in Edinburgh, and then I saw her in London. If she wasn't hurting, you would never know how much she hated you right now."

His head down on his knees, his arms clasped around them, the sleeping bag a bunched mess around his waist – Gordon looked about fifteen years old. But no fifteen year old should have eyes so weighted with self-loathing and despair.

"Well, I guess that makes a pair of us." He gave a quick glance at Virgil. "Or maybe a threesome."

"Okay. I'll bite. Why would I hate you?"

A twist of the mouth. There was truth here Gordon didn't want escaping into the night, but Virgil could see he was losing the battle.

"Oh. A few things."

"Give me one."

The twist was tighter now, and the flesh beneath his jaw was stretched tight in an effort to hold it all in.

Not fifteen. Not even twelve. This Gordon reminded him painfully of the child; betrayed by doubt, bewildered by grief, huddled below the stairs because his father had yelled at him.

"If you want me to guess, it may take a while, but we've got all night." And only tonight; tomorrow, Brains would likely be here and the chance for clearing the air would be gone. "Did Scott say something?"

No. That was clear in the way Gordon gave the slightest of frowns.

"Scott? He's always saying something, it's what he does. He's like a shark - if his mouth isn't open and flapping, he'd drown where he stood."

"That's harsh."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. Scott's fine. He hasn't said anything I haven't said to myself."

"About Penelope?"

Another swing and a miss.

"Penny? What would Scott have to say about Penny? You mean Penny and me? He's got something to say about that? Of course he does. Boy, I can just hear it, too. What's a nice girl like her doing with a beach bum like him, right? What on earth would a classy kind of girl like that ever see in a goofball like Gordon? How close am I?"

Eerily close, and no direction Virgil wanted him going. A tactical retreat.

"No, nothing like that. Just – in general."

"You mean like – hey, Gordon, guess you really screwed several pooches and their mother when you crashed Four and marooned you and you brother on a godforsaken island in the middle of the North Sea?"

"What?" Startled, Virgil turned to look fully at his brother. "Scott would never – why would anyone say that?"

"Uh – because it's true?" Gordon turned to face him too, an act of defiance and honesty. "John's always on about first causes. All that shit yesterday, everything that happened to Scott, it's down to me."

It was a kind of blindsiding Virgil liked to believe wouldn't happen to him. But in all the days of struggle and suffering and survival since Two went down, the thought that Gordon was to blame never occurred to him. The fact of that thought was astonishing to him.

He could only manage one word.

"How?"

A look that told him Gordon wasn't buying the bewildered bit.

"Oh, come on. You know it's true. If I hadn't crashed Four onto that rock like a goddamned booter we would have puttered along down to the coast. Eventually. I couldn't hold it together long enough to go a hundred miles. It's absolutely, one hundred percent down to me. We had a chance, I blew it, and we ended up on Rona. Everything – everything comes from that."

Virgil stared.

"You can't be serious."

"What?"

"You can't believe that."

"Oh, please. Tell me you don't."

"I don't."

"Bullshit."

"Gordon, I don't." He tried to keep his voice low and firm, but distress was dragging it higher. "I really don't. I've never thought that, not even once."

And that, clearly, threw Gordon. He stared in return.

"How can you not get it?"

"How can you even remotely go there?"

"Uh- because we were in my ship? Because I drove her straight into a rock? In all the North Sea I managed to find a stupid rock in the middle of it. I mean, talk about one job. Oh, maybe you're right. Maybe it's your fault. Maybe you should have been standing there telling me, hey, by the way Gordon, those things in the middle of the sea? Don't drive into them. I mean, we're talking classic, Hall of Famer stuff here. Can't even say dumb as a rock, 'cos the rock wasn't the one that had an entire sea to navigate and decided to ram itself straight into the nearest immovable object."

"That's not even – "

"I'm the one who's supposed to never get lost. I never fail a goo test. I broke the CO's record, he was so pissed he arrested me for cheating. Dragged me straight outta the tank, marched me over to the office, there we are at 0-shitty-hundred and he's foaming at the mouth because I must be cheating, I did it so fast. And I'm there thinking duh, it was too easy, that's why I did it so fast, and I swear the old man was nearly gonna punch me, look on my face. Because I don't get lost. Only I did, didn't I? Lost my bearings, lost my mind, did my damn best to kill us both. Made you swim out into night water, god, sixty metres down and you're concussed and I'm throwing us both out there into a nightmare because I couldn't keep my mind on the job."

It was all Virgil could do not to gape.

"How long has this particular tune played in your head?"

"Since it happened. Duh."

"Okay, just - okay." Virgil held up a finger, a call for time-out. "Okay. Just for the record, everything you just said has never once remotely occurred to me. God, Gordon. You were the one who got us out of Two. I was concussed, if it was up to me we'd be dead. Drowned. You were the one who somehow managed to get Four into the North Sea so we didn't end up somewhere under the Arctic Circle."

"Yes! Exactly!" Gordon's voice held a kind of perverse triumph. "And we would have floated away from the area of attack and out from under the EMF. We would have been picked up two days after we went down. John told me they were all waiting there for us to appear. I made the absolute wrong call. And then I went and crashed Four anyway, so, you know. Kudos all round."

"Sure, maybe, with hindsight, but - wait." Virgil had tugged on the lead and it turned out to be the loose thread that meant everything was unravelling. "Wait – is this why you broke it off with Penelope?"

"There never was anything to break off, it – "

"Yeah, okay, fine. Is this why you were deliberately horrible to Penelope in Edinburgh in order to make her hate you and therefore be sure there never would be anything to break off?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe." Said as flatly as anything he'd ever said in his life. "So what else?"

And there was that mulish jaw again, that clamped mouth.

"Come on. Let's hear it. What else?"

"You've already heard it."

"What? When?"

"Yesterday. In the courtroom. You've already heard it." And now the self-loathing was as transparent as a neon sign, flashing its sad little truths in the dark. "Isn't it true you had a great ol' time plugging these men, Mister Tracy? Didn't you do it all for shits and giggles, Mister Tracy? Isn't it true that you're a fucking freak and got your rocks off putting bullets in bad guys, Mister Tracy?"

For a long moment, as Gordon stared miserably ahead and worked his hands together, over and over, Virgil said nothing. This was like looking into a malevolent kaleidoscope, twisting the casing and seeing settled patterns suddenly transformed into unlooked-for new shapes and colours, ones that stripped all beauty and brought only the grotesque.

That Gordon could look back at their experience together and see something so completely different and so utterly damning confounded Virgil. Even as his heart rejected it, absolutely, his mind turned the casing again and again looking at the patterns until he acknowledged that Gordon's view was a defensible one. He understood where and how Gordon had arrived at the understandings that now tormented him. What escaped him and threatened to strangle every comforting motion where it lay, was the key to reversing it all.

He cleared his throat, and went off-piste.

"Let me get this clear. You're saying there's something wrong with you because you enjoyed winning in the cove."

"Winning? Wow."

Virgil shrugged, but carefully.

"What would you call it? We talk about winning battles, don't we? It was a battle, wasn't it?"

"No?"

"Yes? What else would you call it? A disagreement? A little contretemps?"

Gordon risked a glare at him.

"I don't even know what that means."

"Huh. Neither do I, exactly." It got the little snort from Gordon he was going for. "Gordon, you were fighting for your life and mine against people who were trying to kill us both, and do other things besides. I think that qualifies as a battle."

"So? You can call it a beauty contest for all I care. What's your point?"

"My point is, there're a lot of songs and stories and poems out there celebrating battle, and there's a reason for that. A lot of people over the millennia have loved it."

"Great. I'm a bloodthirsty maniac with a Viking axe, but hey, I'm happy in my work."

"You didn't want to kill them, did you?"

"I wanted to blow their fucking heads off and piss down their necks."

"Uh – one more time?"

"No, I didn't want to kill them. But I loved it when I did."

"No, you didn't."

"No, I was just cackling like a maniac the whole time because I was thinking of a great joke I read online."

"That's just a reaction. A way of letting off the stress."

"Can you – are you even hearing what you're saying right now?"

"Okay, wait. Let's start again." Virgil rubbed his hands across his face, marshalling his thoughts. Gordon's face was a thundercloud, and that angry tension was clear in the way he gripped his knees through the sleeping bag. To put it politely, this was not going well. Virgil had to do better.

The trouble was, much of his thinking here was inchoate, as much feeling and instinct as structured reasoning. He felt a kind of fundamental truth, about Gordon, about yesterday, about his own anger and hurt. He just wasn't sure he had the words to frame it.

"Gordon, there's always been a type of man or woman who was good at battle. Warriors. Used to be that a whole chunk of any given population was a fighter, and back in those days, people really did celebrate it. They'd find a kind of joy in it, the kind of rush you get when you're balanced between life and death and the only thing that's going to tip the scales is your own skill and strength and pure dumb luck. They'd sing songs and write poetry about it afterwards, to try and explain just how it felt for those few minutes when their actual existence was up for grabs. When someone else was trying to take that away from them, and they put them down instead. I mean, we're talking about millennia here, and across countless societies."

Gordon ground his teeth.

"Annnnd guess what? We all grew up and got civilized. Just freaks like me who are still back in the Stone Age."

"Stone Age? Try any war in the past two hundred years, any time there was hand to hand fighting."

"Okay, say this is true. We don't have wars now. So what's happened to all that savage stuff?"

Virgil gave a small laugh.

"Yeah, it's really, really well hidden. Just look at the spectators at any sporting contest. It's sublimated warfare. Just listen to the way they talk about games, and their opponents - we smashed them, we killed them, we crushed them."

"Oh, right. Like, half the people at a Royals game would be axe-wielding maniacs if you let 'em?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Some of them, for sure. Only difference is, they haven't been tested. They don't know."

Gordon shifted, dissatisfied but listening. It was more than Virgil could hope for at this stage.

"So you're saying that put people where I was and most of them would react the same way?"

"No. Not at all. But some of them would. And most people nowadays never get the chance to find out who they really are. In IR, we get tested every day." Virgil looked back out at the darkened sea, catching the moonlight as it tipped the waves. "Every now and then we get a rescue where I wonder, is this the one I'm gonna walk away from? Is this the time I just can't do it? And so far, the answer has always been nope, not yet. Most people live their lives avoiding that kind of test, and that's a good thing, I guess. But we get to know ourselves real well."

"Yeah." Something more subdued now, and Virgil wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. "And I got to know that I enjoy putting a bullet in a bad guy. But put Scott or John or you, any of you in that cove and you wouldn't have reacted the way I did."

"John? I have no idea, and neither does he."

"Bullshit. Come on. John would never."

"How do you know? How does anyone know?" Virgil frowned as he tried for as much honesty as he could find in himself. Nothing less would do here. "I think Brains might have it in him. And I know Lady Penelope has."

"Don't." Even hearing the name hurt Gordon, that much was clear.

"Nobody knows until they're tested. And that's what life is, really."

"Okay. Good. No, that's not reductionist at all."

Virgil gave a huff of a laugh.

"Yeah. Sorry. That's really not helpful. But it's true. .. It's true, it really is. It's the whole growing up thing, something most people never do, because they don't actually grow. Gordon, think about all those people, living in safe little suburban houses. You know them. We get to pull their asses out of the fire occasionally. Most of them, they never – they never find out who they are. What lies within. You only find that stuff out if you embrace life, and I think most people look for the luxury of never having to."

"Wow, Virge. Cynical, much?"

"Not cynical. Not really. No blame, here. It makes sense. But it means they can be judgemental, in the way teenagers are judgmental. Kids in high school, college, they can talk about absolutes, and "I'd never", because they haven't been tried. And a lot of them leave school and get a job and find a safe place and they never find out who they are, what they're capable of, so they can sit there and criticise others who fail to come up to a standard imposed by these people who've never had to defend it themselves."

Gordon looked unconvinced. Virgil scrambled in his mind for another argument and found it in a sudden memory.

"Do you remember that rescue in the Alps when – "

"Which alps?"

"Italian Alps, about a year ago? Up in the ski lift, got stuck in a storm and we dropped in, got about ten people off a cable car stuck about fifty meters up?"

"Yeah?"

"You went down with harnesses and a cable guide keeping you on target."

"Oh, yeah. Fun ride."

"You remember that guy who nearly got killed because he pushed past everyone and made a grab for the line?"

Gordon frowned.

"Jerk who pushed aside a kid I was about to lift? Oh, hell yeah, I remember him."

"I did a little digging when we got home. Guy ran a Glory website, you know, that 'White is Right' movement? Wrote all these articles, about what was morally correct and what was just, and who should be ashamed, who should be applauded. This guy told the world how it should be, and how disgusted he was that it didn't meet his standards. You know what? He had a wife and three kids in that cable car. He just left them behind."

"Wow. I never knew that."

"Well, you had your hands full at the time."

"And then some. I remember the cable going just as we got the last ones onto the seats."

"Nearly fell off yourself, as I recall."

"Oh, yeah. Pulled my shoulder. Forgot about that! Remember those twins though, 'bout eight? Running around the module all the way back."

"You ended up singing k-pop songs with them to quiet 'em down."

It was good, a moment of grace, to hear Gordon chuckle.

"Yeah. They were good kids, just really hyper."

Virgil muttered, "Oh yeah, you're such a horrible human being." Gordon heard, and scowled.

"Uh, where were you going with this?"

"My point was, he could afford to be judgmental and bloody minded precisely because he'd never once been tested in his life – and when he was, turns out he's the kind of guy who barrels past everyone in line and leaves his family behind. That's my point. That's exactly my point. That's what life is about, it's challenges that come up when you don't expect them and it's finding out who you are when they do. Remember the '48 Flux? Whole lot of people discovered things about themselves and their neighbours when that happened. They found out who closed up the fortress, who opened the door to help. And until that point, they'd all been indistinguishable middle class suburbanites. They had no idea what they'd do or who they really were until life threw them a curveball."

A silence like a shake of the head. Virgil took a slow breath and tried again.

"Okay. Try this. Here we are, nice and warm around a chemical campfire. What would you do if you heard a scream, say, off in that rocky headland?"

"A scream?"

"Yeah, someone in trouble, someone terrified. What would you do?"

Gordon looked at him blankly.

"Go and check it out."

"You'd leave this nice, safe heat-cube campfire and head out into the dark and - ?"

"Don't pretend you wouldn't."

"I'm not. I agree. But that's the thing. There are people who would hear that scream and draw closer to the fire. And there are people who would surround themselves with walls and light so they never have to hear the scream at all. You? You hear that scream and you're off into the dark to help."

"So are you."

"Yeah. Difference is, I'd do it, and I'd be determined, and I'd see it through, but you? You'd love it."

"Great. Someone's in trouble and I get a kick out of it. Not helping."

"It's not the people in trouble you're getting a kick out of. It's danger. It's the challenge. It's excitement. And nothing's exciting for you without risk. You can celebrate opening a can of cheese, I know you can celebrate life in the face of death."

"Better thrill-seeking through guns."

"Gordo, face it. You're a warrior."

Gordon grimaced. "Someone who likes killing people."

"Really? You're really going to stick with that? You're gonna tell me you actually got off on killing someone?"

"No! Not – the fact of it. I didn't want to kill them, I wanted to stop them. And yeah, that's what I did." Gordon's voice grew quiet. "I thought about who they might be. Not then, not at the time, but after. What if they had brothers? Sisters? Kids? What if they had people waiting for them? They had fucked up ideas, no argument, but – I was the one who put an end to their time line. They stopped happening. Whoever they were, they stopped being because of what I did. That's gotta be all kinds of fucked up."

And all the carefully measured words, all the sensible arguments, meant nothing in the face of that harsh fact. Virgil opened his mouth to offer something, anything, as a sop to the brutality of it, but his own honesty stoppered it. After a long pause, Gordon kept going, his voice strained and quiet.

"I mean… I don't get it. I trained for it, I thought about it, but I don't get it. Why or how do I be the one to stop the existence of someone else? I make that call because I was quicker, smarter, you know I had the advantage of territory and surprise… and people stopped, Virge. They stopped, just gone."

"I know."

Gordon nodded.

"I know you do. Because you killed someone too. So tell me, bro – did you laugh as you broke that guy's neck? What was his name again?"

It felt like cruelty, but he chose to believe it was simply raw honesty.

"Munoz."

"Munoz, right. Mine were Dolan Shearwater and Tyrone Calhoun. Never forget, huh? But you weren't laughing, were you?"

"Me? No." Virgil swallowed, hard, against the sudden bile that rose in his mouth. "No, I was just so angry… I was so mad. You were shot, he'd shot you, and I was just filled with… rage, I guess. Pure rage."

"And I was filled with joy. See how one makes sense, one's kinda fucked up?" Gordon stared outward again, and his eyes held nothing but sorrow. "I can scrub all I like, I'm never getting rid of this. And I'm never bringing it to Penny."

"But –"

"Nope. Just no. I am officially done with this. Brrr." Gordon shook himself all over, as if coming up from deep water, and unzipped his sleeping bag. "I need to move. Like, now. Catch you later." He was up and on his feet with an energy Virgil would later wonder at, and then he was sprinting down the beach, barefooted, the last sign of him the faint silver of his hair in the moonlight.

"Ugggh." Virgil lay back with an oof, his arms spread out, utter weariness invading every cell of his body. The temptation to lie there and just melt into the sand was enormous. He couldn't get up and follow. Not now. Not with yesterday's excess and today's exertion battling to take credit for the leaden limbs and foggy brain.

He would just sleep, out here, and after a while Gordon would come back and wake him, and they'd go into the tent and sleep and in the morning this would never be spoken of again.

Or.

Or he could get up and follow the footsteps that looked so impermanent in the sand, so ready to be wiped away with the turn of the tide.

Sleep. Sleep won. He was too damned tired for anything else. Had to be sleep.

Which meant the fact that his legs were pulling up underneath him, and his arms were pushing back the sleeping bag was part of a weird, weird dream.

With a massive sigh that ended with his eyes closing and staying that way for too long to be anything but wishful thinking, he lumbered off after Gordon, a zombie in chase of a demented sprite.

To Virgil's enormous relief, Gordon stopped when he reached the tall stand of rocks that jagged into the water, whatever was impelling him to run not strong enough to urge him over sharp edges in the middle of the night. Virgil could see him leaning against a particularly tall outcrop, head low between his shoulders, for all the world looking as though the rock was the only thing holding him up. For a second Virgil's mind went to another rock, deep beneath the waves more than a hundred miles from here, and the nightmare of concussion and exhaustion that rode them in the tiny confines of Four as they tried their best to avoid it.

No; as Gordon tried. It was all on his young brother's shoulders, from the moment they hit the sea, and that was a story he hadn't tried nearly hard enough to share. Coulter's malevolent inquiry stripped away all self-delusion, but in its acidity it burned away the truth, too. He didn't need that kind of inquisition, but he did need to tell a better truth than he had done so far in his efforts to soften a harshness that hurt. Virgil had to put away his own discomfort and shame and fear in order to tell his family just what happened. Sparing them, sparing himself, had left Gordon believing a version of the story that was eroding his very essence, that kindly hope and happiness unique to him.

In the bright moonlight Gordon threw a shadow on the rock before him. When he turned at Virgil's approach, the light was enough to show tracks of silver on his cheeks.

No welcome, no resistance, just honesty now.

"I don't like this. I don't like any of this. Everything's fucked up."

And Virgil could hear the tears in his brother's voice, but this wasn't the way Gordon cried. Gordon crying was like Gordon laughing, every part of his body in service to expressing what he felt. This? This was so tied up and tied back and ground down that it made Virgil want to shake him. If this was how Grown-Up Gordon cried, he didn't like it.

He went for the platitudes and found empty. Wisdom? Closed down for the night, if ever there in the first place. Humour? Dead, buried, concreted over.

At last, he sighed.

"Yeah. Yeah, it really is."

"I screwed up everything."

"No. No, you really didn't."

Something bitten off and sucked down, then, the noisy sob that was Gordon's usual grief still wrangled into a chokehold.

"Hey. Hey, Gordon, come on. Hey now."

Those awful sounds continued, the ones that told him his brother didn't think he deserved the honest release of a howl.

"Gordo, saying it doesn't make it so. You know that, right?"

"Argh." Aggressively, Gordon wiped his face with his arm, then shook his hands out as if to rid himself of the tears. "God. I don't want to do this."

"Neither do I. I want to be back in the tent and sleeping."

"You didn't have to follow me!"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Well, go back now. I'm fine. Just being stupid, as well as incompetent and all psycho."

"Can't."

"Sure you can."

"Can't." Virgil gestured at the night sky. "Scared of the dark."

"Ha."

"And – Big Brother Union Rule. You know the one."

"What are you on?"

"Big Brother Union Rules. You know them, you're a big brother. Would you leave Alan here like this?"

Gordon went to answer, and then snapped his mouth shut.

"Exactly. No, you're throwing an excellent pity party, great, really high standard. Hate to miss it." A growl was the response he got to that volley. "So for me to get back to bed, you'd have to come, too."

For a moment he thought Gordon was going to turn and head further along the beach. He was facing away, his body taut, everything sending a dismal message of escape. Then, finally, he seemed to deflate.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Okay?"

A sad little shrug, and there was very little triumph in this victory.

"Not gonna feel any better round the rocks, am I?"

"Probably not," Virgil agreed. He dared to reach over and put an arm around Gordon's shoulders. "Come on. I've got the good chocolate stashed in the galley. Why don't we – "

"What would Dad think?" It came out in a kind of breathless rush, and all the force of dread held back by the flimsiest of dams was in it.

Virgil spoke carefully.

"What would Dad think about..?"

"About me. What I did. What they heard in that courtroom." Virgil actually heard Gordon swallow. "Would he be glad I'm not really – I'm not his…"

Ah.

Here it was. The thing that festered deep beneath everything else, that poisoned every other act and consequence, that distorted the reflection and twisted the truth into nasty little pools of slime hidden under the shine.

"He'd think that, wouldn't he? He'd think, Scott wouldn't be like that. Or John, or Virgil, or Alan, you know, the regular Tracys. He'd think – "

It was too much, and at last, Gordon's words were swamped in a wave of grief so painful all Virgil could do was swing his brother around into his arms and hold on tight as the torrent rocked them both.

They stood there, together, only this time it wasn't about fixing anything. This time they both cried, for innocence lost and knowledge unwanted, and for the fact that the man who could heal all of this with a word was gone forever. They stood in the cold, on the damp sand, barefoot and jacketless and naked to the feelings of unworthiness and helplessness that claimed them both.

But they held on. Useless as they both felt, they held on.

And the waves kept coming in to shore. The moon kept shining, sombre and silver, the breeze began to nip at their ribs. The dog began to bark again, a distant annoyance in a different life, somewhere inland.

Gradually, the grief subsided until they could both start to remember that they were men, and manly men-type men always had to have a quick escape route after this flagrant a display of vulnerability.

But Virgil knew he had one minute's grace, before they'd pull away and patch up the walls again. One short moment as they paused between the comfort of closeness and the demands of testosterone.

He spoke softly, with all the sincerity he had in his soul.

"I got no clue what Dad might think. But I think he'd say you protected your brother and, a whole lot more importantly, you did what you had to so that the weapon got destroyed. I don't know how many lives that saved, but that's a good thing, right there. And I think he'd know that you never wanted them dead. I don't know that you've ever had hate in your heart for anyone." Briefly, he squeezed tight again. "I think he'd be proud. And he'd love you, like I do, bro."

Gordon butted his head against Virgil's shoulder at that, face hidden.

It bought them a few more seconds of closeness, as Virgil hoped with all his heart that something of what was said here would be absorbed and believed by this brother of his, so full of hurt, so undeserving of it.

A muffled, "You, too," into his shoulder, and the moment was stretched to its limit.

But lifetimes of following the dictates of brotherhood meant that intimacy must now be balanced with retreat. Preferably, into the vulgar or the juvenile. Abruptly, Gordon pulled back, grimacing.

"Ugh. God, Virgil, you have snotted my shirt. My shirt is now officially a snot-rag."

"Brat." Virgil gave one more squeeze around Gordon's shoulders, then stepped away, instantly feeling the loss of Gordon's body heat. "See if I come running after you again."

Gordon's voice was still shaky, but he was trying heroically to follow the code.

"Big Brother's Union, Virge. You have to. Them's the rules."

"Yeah, well, I'm thinking of bringing up a few changes at the next annual meeting. Like little brothers who make their big brothers get out of bed should carry them back there."

"I could."

"Your little legs would snap like celery."

"Thighs of steel. Thighs of steeeel."

In unspoken accord they turned to begin the trudge back along the arc of the beach, their little campsite a dispiritingly long way away.

"I blame myself," Virgil said. "I dropped you on your head as a baby."

"Accidents happen."

"I dropped you repeatedly."

That earned a tremulous snort of laughter from Gordon.

"You said you have chocolate?"

"Yes."

"Chocolate sounds good."

"Chocolate always sounds good."

They said nothing else as they retraced their steps, occasionally veering up the beach as a particularly enterprising wave chased them inland. If it wasn't exactly peace it was, perhaps, the lassitude that comes after bloodletting. Virgil could at last be sure that he knew what was haunting his brother, that he knew the name and shape of the demons persecuting him, of the dragons he was failing to slay. They were all laid bare now, revealed not into light but darkness and perhaps all the scarier for that. Morning would help. In Virgil's experience, dragons led into the open always loomed large at night but withered in the sun. He could hope and wish for that, and he'd bring a sunlamp of his own to train on the damn things whenever he saw the chance.

Together, they reached the campsite, and then stared glumly down at their wet sand encrusted feet.

"They'll dry." Was that a trace of lightness in Gordon's voice? "Go get the supplies, Virge, and by the time we've done right by them our feet will dry."

"You're the beach expert."

"Ah, don't worry, Virge." Gordon gave a brief wave of his hand, but then his eyes met Virgil's, and for all they were red and swollen, they were also honest. "You might turn out to be pretty good at other things."

I just might at that, thought Virgil. Or I just might continue being a horse's ass who misses all the goddamned clues.

But we've got chocolate. We've got sea and sky. We've got a dry night and a cool breeze. We've got family and we've got each other.

Maybe, in the end, dragons weren't so tough after all.

***** ****** ******  
It took a full week, and the help of both Brains and Max, but Two and her module were now as ready as effort and expertise could make her.

Virgil stowed their camping gear under the cockpit before coming out to wave at Gordon, jogging back down the beach from where the module sat. He was grinning as he approached.

"Brains and Max are staying in there. Max got his claw caught in between the pod frame and the hull. Brains is losing his mind trying to figure out how it could get through the strut but not out."

"We'll pick them up in there. Come on. Lift's working again."

"Well, hallelujah. Although, I was thinking. Maybe we could swing into Two all the time. It'd look kind of awesome. You know, heroes come in, save day, then swing up into Two on grapple lines? Wave at the top, hi ho Green Thing, away."

"I think you're seriously disturbed."

"And you're no fun. Wait – gotta take this amazing shell back for Grandma." Gordon hefted up a large red whelk shell he'd found two days before on the further beach.

"Pretty. I think she'll like that."

"Yeah. I'll decontaminate it in the galley microwave."

Virgil paused before going into his 'bird.

"Well, so long, Tolsta Beach. Thanks for the hospitality."

"And the swimming."

"And the weather."

"God, yeah, the weather." It had stayed breezy but dry for the entire week, invigorating in its freshness, and it was still something that they found themselves marvelling at. "Stay loose, Tolsta."

The two of them travelled up in the internal lift. In unspoken agreement, they had both climbed into their IR uniforms, previously abandoned for the week. It felt right to be wearing them as they sat down in the flying seats, as Virgil began pre-flight checks and Gordon stared happily out the sparkling windshields, all now intact.

A kind of hyper-awareness descended upon him as Virgil reached for the start of the pre-flight routine. It was so automatic, movements he'd done a thousand times, that he didn't have to think about the order of them. But even as the familiarity of it directed him, Virgil's mind was focused sharply on each dial, each gauge, each switch and lever. They were manifestly clean, and each component had been checked and tested to Brain's exacting standards. Two was ready.

It was an altogether more complex question as to whether or not Virgil was.

There was no film of scum on the controls. The windshield didn't gape from where Gordon had blasted a hole in it. The power was waiting under his fingertips, not gone, deadly in it absence, its silence.

Compressors check. Air output. Planetary reduction drive engaged. Energise ignition box. Chemical combustors engaged.

But the ghost of the damage remained.

She waited for him. Quiescent, ready for his summons. All he had to do was trust she'd answer the call.

And that was it, the little shiver of recognition in his mind. The truth that evaded him as he first stood inside Two on Tolsta Beach and knew something remained yet to be done, to be found.

Trust.

Trust in her. More challengingly, trust in himself.

"Hey, Virge?"

"Yeah?"

"You do know that if Brains throws up in the module, I will kill him."

Virgil chuckled, and even as he did, his hand grasped the power lever and pushed it forward.

Yeah, to hell with it. Better to trust. To try. To believe.

Better to live life on the edge of death, on the edge of the world.

He pushed the lever forward, and she roared into life beneath him.

Ignition.

"VTOL engaged," he said, and heard and felt as the engines scorched them upwards, off the beach and the blocks, back into the sky where she belonged. Her nose swung a little and he corrected as the line of dunes and grass, tiny farms and low hills disappeared from his eye-line to be replaced by a soft, silky blue, milk-washed in the morning light.  
Only one thing left to do. He cleared his throat and kept his voice and his message loud and clear.

"Thunderbird Two is go."

Gordon looked across to him, and his smile was real, even as tears he would deny starred his eyes, even as he reached out for a fist-bump and found exactly the right thing to say.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be."

The End

Notes:

So, almost ten months later, this is the finish of the little story that began with an image of Virgil and Gordon in a falling plane. There isn't a chapter that hasn't required research of some sort; everything from whether frangipanis bloom in March (they do) to what constitutes evidence in a coronial inquest; from how to fly a Spitfire to how to measure the flow of water to B and Bs in Elgin and pubs near Chiswick House. It's been brilliant fun, and I am so grateful that so many of you came along for the ride. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Thank you to all who have read and offered feedback for this story. I have tried to thank each of you personally, but I am unsure how to do that when no pm option is available. Please believe me when I say that your kindness and support is deeply appreciated.


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